Compelling Curiosity
by bcbdrums
Summary: A series of one-shots answering KCS's daily writing prompts. I will write them as I am inspired, so there will be no specific chronology or point of view. The rating is to give me room to play as the prompts come. NOTE: This fic is on hiatus indefinitely.
1. Discomfiting Designations

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Compelling Curiosity

© 2008 by the author (anonymous by request) in association with Daylor and Sheldon Publishing™

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission.

The author does not in any way profit from this work. All creative rights to the characters belong to their original creator.

For more information: submit your query in a private message.

* * *

_A/N: This will be a series of one-shots answering __**KCS**__'s daily writing prompts, which she posts on her profile. No specific chronology or point of view. I will write as I am inspired :-)_

_Prompt #1 - __Choose a middle name for Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You must give a reason in your ficlet for the choosing of that particular name._

* * *

Compelling Curiosity

Prompt 1 – Discomfiting Designations

It was useless. I could not keep my eyes open.

As I looked into the crackling embers of the fire the image only blurred, and the heat encouraged the drooping of my heavy lids. It was time for bed.

But as I rose from my chair, a soft rustling of papers caught my attention and I glanced back to see Sherlock Holmes bent over his desk with what appeared to be a magazine. The sound I had heard was his folding back of several pages so he could comfortably hold the magazine with one hand and write with another, which he seemed to be doing.

I was curious, but too tired to bother with it until he called my name with a rather irregular question.

"Watson," I looked back, "What is your middle name?" I did not answer immediately, for I was surprised and curious as to what had brought on such a desultory query. And as is his habit, he read my thoughts and answered them with surprising alacrity. "Beeton's Christmas Annual," he said, indicating the magazine, "I had thought to go back through that publication you so fancifully titled _A Study in Scarlet_, and take down the truly important facts so as to archive them for my own monograph on the subjects of observation and deduction. But it occurs to me," he rose to join me before the fire where I had re-seated myself, "that you always include your middle initial in your signatures. I had taken little notice of it prior, but now I'm curious…what is your middle name?"

I didn't answer, and he raised his eyebrows.

"Well I…rather…" he leaned forward eagerly and still I hesitated. But…it was not of much consequence. I suppose I could trust my friend of seven years, "I don't know."

I had distinctly startled him.

"What?"

I shrugged, "I don't know. Well…I have my preference, but I do not know for certain what it says on my birth certificate."

"How can you not know?" he was somewhat incredulous, "A man's name is his identity. I am surprised you do not place more importance on knowing, though I am still in the dark about _why_ you do not know."

"Oh, I do place importance on it. But as none address me by my middle name nor my first, it is not something that often crosses my mind."

"What is…_are_ your middle names then, if there are multiple possibilities as you seem to imply?"

"Well when I was a young lad, my grandmother would constantly call me Hamish, telling me how proud she was to have a grandson named for her husband. However when my mother was cross with me…" Sherlock Holmes smirked, "she would call me John Henry."

"Ah, so you are unsure whether to take your grandmother's or mother's word on the subject."

"Precisely. I see the logic in taking my mother's intimation, but I also know how influential my grandparents were on my father. So my legal middle name could be Hamish and my mother simply called me by what she preferred as middle name, or…"

"Or your grandmother could simply have been senile." I blinked and gave a slight nod. Holmes leaned back in his chair. "So which do you prefer?" he asked, unusually interested in what I knew he would typically deem a trivial subject.

"Well, I like the idea of honoring my grandfather. To my knowledge he does not have a namesake. But…as far as aesthetics go, I prefer Henry." Holmes nodded slowly behind closed eyes and said nothing. There was a hint of a smile on his face and I wondered what he found so amusing about the subject.

A thought suddenly occurred to me, "What is your middle name?" He jumped and his eyes opened with a flash of fear and I laughed heartily. "Come now, it cannot be worse than Hamish?" His silence and averted eyes suggested it might be. "Be fair Holmes. I told you," I gave him a pointed look. Finally, after a few nervous glances he cleared his throat to answer.

"I have two middle names."

"Oh?"

"Yes."

"And?" He was silent. "Holmes…" I scolded, and drawing himself up tall in the chair he answered with a pride very opposite his anxiety of moments before.

"Joseph Addison." I didn't respond immediately, because that name seemed familiar to me, but the result was that my friend turned bright red and sank back in his chair.

"Oh come now Holmes, it's a perfectly respectable name. Is it a family name?" I asked, the name still seeming oddly familiar.

He drew his knees into the chair and curled up like a hurt animal, glancing nervously at me. It was all I could do to keep my face steady, and I tried to give him an encouraging look.

"I would like to blame it on ancestry. Indeed, Joseph is the name of my great-great-grandfather, but that is not why I was given the name."

"Why then?" He looked away and drew a deep breath.

"My mother was fond of the poet of the same name," he said all in a rush. I thought for a moment and then snapped my fingers as the pieces fell into place.

"Addison! That's right, he was dean of Lichfield was he not?"

"I believe so. I do not really care," he sulked.

"Honestly Holmes, it's a perfectly respectable English name. Why does it disturb you so?"

He pinched his eyes shut, "Because my mother…my mother _had_ to introduce me to _everyone_ with my full name and explain why she chose _each_ name. _Including_ the anecdote about my first name!" he said despairingly, and uncoiled his body with a sigh of defeat.

I had to admit to feeling some sympathy for him. There are few worse things as can plague a child as an embarrassing name. I watched him for a moment, and he simply stared into the fire despondently. Indeed, his must not have been the most joyous of childhoods. Although the way he was carrying on, he still seemed a child to me.

"Hmm…" I sighed, and he looked up at me questioningly.

"What?" he fairly snapped.

I chuckled thoughtfully, "Sherlock Joseph Addison Holmes."

"John _Hamish _Watson," he intoned with a fiery look. I couldn't help but laugh at that. And apparently, it was infectious, for after a moment his face cleared and he joined me and I was soon in tears over the subject.

"I recommend," I said, dabbing at my eyes with my handkerchief, "that we leave our Christian names to legal documents and the post."

"Agreed," he nodded gravely, sending us both into another fit of laughter.

* * *

_Author's notes: Um, I didn't proofread this...and I know it sounds...not quite right in some places, but I'm too lazy to go back and change it. It stands well enough. Just not my best. Anyway, I LOVED this prompt because I'm an onomastician (studier of names) and I had already picked 'Addison' as Holmes's middle name, simply because I liked it and it seemed to fit him. But I wanted to tie in his ancestry, so I added 'Joseph' from his great-great-grandfather, Joseph Vernet. That accounts for the French and familial ties. It conveniently fit in to this challenge with the actual English poet, Joseph Addison. And…I added the bit about Watson's middle name just because that debate has always bothered me. Hope y'all are okay with my choices. Opinions?_


	2. Reminiscent Reunions

_A/N: I forgot to mention previously, all my chapter titles will be two-word alliterations. Just because I want to ;-) I need more adjectives in my vocabulary._

_Prompt #2 – A reunion between Stamford and the famous duo. Any time in their acquaintance, any location, and any genre._

* * *

Compelling Curiosity

Prompt 2 – Reminiscent Reunions

I glanced around absently as I waited with the rest of the queue to talk to the speaker.

The lecture had been interesting enough, on the subject of the effects of overdosing on the fat-soluble vitamins. Ironically, Holmes and I had discussed the very same subject during our first week in Baker Street.

But I have left the reader uninformed. The speaker whom I had just finished listening to was none other than Dr. Adam Stamford, the man who introduced me to Sherlock Holmes. And that he should be speaking on something that calls back my memories of those early days is indeed ironic.

Or perhaps nostalgic is a more accurate term, for of all the adventures I have shared with Sherlock Holmes, it was that first week that was the most memorable and recherché. But that is another story.

On this day, Holmes had gone out early in his investigations. Something to do with several robberies in a well-to-do neighborhood that he had determined would be most rapidly solved by a stakeout. So he had trodden out at two o' clock in the morning and I had answered his request that I accompany him by rolling over and going back to sleep. I heard him mutter something about calling Stanley Hopkins which I regarded with a snort, and then forgot the whole matter.

And now it was midday and I had not seen hide nor hair of him. I admit to a tinge of regret and worry, but it was not as if he couldn't look after himself. So having nothing else to do I had attended the weekly lecture at Charing Cross.

So imagine my surprise, dear reader, to see the very man responsible for setting the course of my life after the Afghan war. He had aged definitely, but no more than I. He now wore a beard, and by the darkening of his skin, I deduced he had made his life in some country practice.

Anymore than that I had not been able to see from my position at the rear of the hall. But I was determined to reacquaint myself with the man who had unwittingly shaped my future.

I had lingered near the back of the crowd, wanting more than a few congratulatory words with him. And now as only a handful of people were left, I saw Dr. Stamford catch my eye and look at me for a moment as one who is trying to recall something from a dream. His accompanying bellow upon recognizing me caused to wince with a smile.

"By Heaven, is that Watson?! My word, it's a pleasure to see you! You're looking none worse for the years. How on earth are you?" he greeted me enthusiastically, walking past the others waiting to speak with him and pumping my hand vigorously.

"Well enough, and you?" I answered with a bit more decorum, though I admit to feeling positively giddy.

Holmes would put me down for being a hopeless romantic, but the fact of it was our friendship would not be had it not been for Stamford's thrusting us together when he did. For that, I would be eternally grateful, and I wanted to tell him so.

We exchanged a few pleasantries and I learned he was only in town for the weekend. So after he spoke with the other well-wishers, he rejoined me and I offered to walk him back to his hotel.

It was a bright day in the Strand, and we walked along slowly as I questioned him about his life of the past fourteen years since I had seen him last. I was correct in that he had chosen a country practice, and he was now head of a small hospital in Effington. His researches into food supplements had been recognized for some time, and I was embarrassed to tell him I had not read of his work.

But to be fair, he seemed to have heard nothing of me either, for he did not mention my publications. So I bided my time as he rambled on about the oddities that came to his hospital in the country, from mere bouts of cowpox to odd cases of madness that had yet to be explained.

He took a deep breath from all his gossiping and I considered how to bring up the sentimental subject that was stuck in my mind. Strangely enough, my nervous habit of swinging my stick about offered me an opening; for Stamford noticed this and his mood calmed as he contemplated it.

"I never knew you to carry a stick, Watson," he thought for a minute, "Is that old war wound giving you trouble?"

"Actually, my injury in Afghanistan was in the shoulder," I raised my left hand with a wry smile, "The leg wound I received in London, actually."

"Good heavens, how on earth did that happen?!" I could have laughed at the man's forgetfulness, but he had always been an absentminded fellow.

"It was during my first week in Baker Street, actually…" I remarked somewhat distraitly, recalling the incident.

"Baker Street?"

"Oh," I looked at him mischievously, "you do not remember Sherlock Holmes?" I asked, barely suppressing my smirk. Stamford's brow grew dark for a moment, and then he suddenly snapped his fingers as it came back to him.

"Holmes! That's right, I remember the fellow. Strangest man I've ever met. He only came around Bart's once or twice after I brought you two together. What did he end up doing, do you know?"

At this point I could restrain myself no longer and let out a hearty laugh that was met with a distinctly puzzled look from the old doctor. My outburst would have been viewed as lunacy to the passerby, but it was total sentimentality and carefree reminiscence that was the cause of my behavior.

"I'm sorry old man, but the joke is on you this time," I answered once I had recovered myself, and Stamford looked amused but slightly miffed at being out of the know, "It so happens that Sherlock Holmes is the most famous detective in across three continents."

Stamford fixed me with an eager look, "A detective? So that was the object of his studies…" he said thoughtfully, tugging at his thick beard.

"Well, I don't know that his studies had an actual purpose beyond his curiosity. But any knowledge he gained certainly has aided him. He is so successful in fact, that he has had kings as clients."

"Oh really?" he said, genuinely interested.

"Mm," I nodded, "but he is by no means proud. He will take a case from the lowest creature in London if there is some grotesque element to the situation."

"Ha! Well that would not surprise me, from what I remember of him," he guffawed, "You still keep in touch, then?"

I chuckled, "Well, rather more than 'in touch,'" he cocked an eyebrow at me and stared pointedly, and I glanced away, suddenly conscious of how ridiculous I must seem.

"What then, are you his publicist? For all you are lauding him it certainly seems to be so."

I imitated him, fiddling with the corners of my moustache, as I contemplated a response.

We had wandered down the Strand and through Pall Mall, and were now nearing St. James Square. It occurred to me that I could find a back issue of The Strand to show Stamford. So I gave him an enigmatic look that rivaled those of Holmes himself, and hurried along the street to the London Library.

* * *

"So what am I supposed to be looking for?" he asked skeptically as I place a rare 1887 copy of _Beeton's Christmas Annual_ in his hands. I turned him to the page and pointed to the heading, and a moment later he let out a quiet gasp as he read my name.

I turned back to the archives as he continued to flip through the pages and located a few copies of _The Strand_, one from 1891 and the last two I had published before Holmes forbade me to continue and placed those atop the magazine he currently held as he looked up at me.

"What is this Watson? Some kind of…_mystery_ story?"

I laughed, "Take a look at those," I intoned lightheartedly, and he handed the Beeton's back to me as he glanced over my record of _The Blue Carbuncle_ and _The Naval Treaty_. I myself flipped through my old record of _A Study in Scarlet_ and while I must admit to being absolutely giddy, I could not help but cringe at some of the errors in the mechanics of my writing.

"Watson?" I was startled out of my brown study at his voice, which had suddenly turned very grim, "What is this?" He had the December 1893 issue of _The Strand_ open to _The Final Problem_.

"Oh, well…"

"Should I take this to mean he is dead?" The obvious despair in Stamford's voice surprised me, and I wondered about his sudden change of mood.

"Well, no." He sighed with obvious relief.

"What is it then?"

"You see…he did die. But not really. I only thought he had died." Stamford blinked. "I don't suppose that makes any sense."

"Not in the slightest."

"Let me start at the beginning…" I said wearily, the more unpleasant memories of the past fourteen years surfacing.

We left the library and continued on to Piccadilly where Stamford was staying, and I told him of the case that had been the 'death' of Sherlock Holmes, and then of his return to life. I also reminisced about some of the more outré of past cases, including that singular event that almost caused us to part during our first week of acquaintance, all of which Stamford listened to with uncharacteristic quiet and attention.

"I must come to London more often, Watson," said he as we reached his hotel, "for with all these goings on and I not being aware of any of them, I must truly be the definition of a hermit."

"Not at all, my dear chap," I smiled, "you simply have your own life to lead. You cannot be expected to place another's at the focal point of your existence." He laughed at this and I joined him, grateful to leave behind the brooding thoughts my memories had caused.

We had paused on the doorstep, neither of us really wanting to say goodbye, when a familiar voice cut through the air.

"Watson!" I head, and turned to see Sherlock Holmes rushing out of a cab and coming towards us, "you really should have come Watson! This case would make an excellent addition to your collection. I must—oh! I beg your pardon…" he blushed as he realized I wasn't alone. "How terribly rude of me, please accept my most sincere apolo—" he stopped short and looked at my companion carefully, "Well I never would have believed it! Doctor Stamford, this is indeed a surprise! How long has it been, almost…fifteen years? Whatever have you been doing with yourself? Ah, made something of yourself as a country doctor I observe. And still into that dreadful research about vitamins? I have to tell you Watson and I had a most interesting discussion on the subject the very week you introduced us…"

Holmes's good humor from what had obviously been a successful case was not about to quell, and he continued rambling on about recollections from the early days and inserting the odd deduction about Stamford's current lifestyle, to which he responded with genuine astonishment.

After several minutes I suggested we go inside and take tea, and they followed my suggestion, Holmes only nibbling at a biscuit as he continued to tell Stamford more than my tact would allow me about past cases and humorous anecdotes about our adventures in Baker Street.

Stamford listened all attention to my friend, and I sat back in my chair, smiling at the pair of them, wondering if the curiosity on Stamford's face was anything like mine had been when I first met the man I call my best friend.

I caught him glancing at me occasionally, a singular smile in his eyes that seemed to say thank you. I imagined he meant thanks for the joyous day and for sharing the fond memories. My own eyes mirrored the look with equal affection.

* * *

_Author's notes: This idea sounded extraordinarily good when I was literally dreaming it up, but as I wrote it I could not hear Watson's voice, and I kept seeing Edward Hardwicke (not an unpleasant prospect, but somewhat distracting). So if this does not sound like Watson, my only explanation is a complete lack of focus._

_Oh, and I dropped numerous hints about a singular event that occurred early in Holmes's and Watson's acquaintance. I am indeed writing a fic addressing that event._

_Hope y'all enjoyed!_


	3. Treacherous Trials

_A/N: from the fourth page of STUD: 'Holmes is a little too scientific for my tastes - it approaches to cold-bloodedness. I could imagine his giving a friend a little pinch of the latest vegetable alkaloid, not out of malevolence, you understand, but simply out of a spirit of inquiry in order to have an accurate idea of the effects. To do him justice, I think that he would take it himself with the same readiness.'_

_Prompt #3 - Use your imagination - need I elaborate?_

* * *

Compelling Curiosity

Prompt 3 – Treacherous Trials

Of the many characteristics which my friend Sherlock Holmes possesses, common sense is not among them. He has proven this on many occasions with his unnecessary risk taking and haphazard treatment of any given situation.

But there is one incident that sticks out in my memory as being the worst of his careless decisions, which I now record with a nervous hand. For his irresponsible action in this instance nearly cost him his life.

It was a warm evening in the late summer of 1888 that found me passing through Baker Street upon finishing my rounds, and seeing the light from the familiar window, I decided to look in on my friend.

I let myself in with my old key, and a cursory glance at the coat-rack told me Mrs. Hudson was not at home. I hung my own coat and hat and ascended the familiar stairs.

Holmes bellowed through the closed door for me to enter before I had even reached the landing, and I opened the door and smiled at the familiar sight of him hunched over his chemistry set in the corner, obviously deep into some criminal research.

I entered and set my bag upon the table and crossed over to lean against the back of his chair as I watched him. He glanced up at me and smiled enigmatically as I studied the scene before me.

He had several bottles in front of him, a few open, and some fluids in test tubes. There was also an organized line of syringes, and one in his hand which he was filling with a solution from one of the test tubes.

"I am glad you are here Watson, you can assist me," he said commandingly as he studied the syringe and the label of one of the bottles.

"Any way I can," I offered and leaned forward interestedly, "What are you doing?"

He frowned, "There's a fellow in from Sumatra that specializes in exotic diseases. From what I've heard, he's a rather unsavory character though has not done anything expressly outside of the law."

"And how does he fit into your chemical studies?"

"Ah, well I thought it best to familiarize myself with some of the toxins he specializes in, for future reference should he turn his expertise to criminal pursuits."

"And those are…?"

"The more common of poisons and germs readily available to the public. I ordered them a month ago when I first received news of this Sumatran toxicologist being in London. Some of these," he gestured toward the closed bottles, "are not unknown to me, but these others I have not heard of. And for that to be so they must be recent discoveries indeed."

"So what are your plans for the unknown toxins?"

"Why, to test them and make a record of their effects. Unfortunately," he looked at his watch in annoyance, "my shipment of guinea pigs has not arrived, and as the hour grows late I doubt they will be here this evening."

I sat back against the chair, "What will you do then?" He thought for a moment, and I saw a gleam coming into his eyes.

"Well, I could inject myself and you could record the effects for me," he said matter-of-factly.

I blinked, "You _must_ be joking Holmes."

"What is the harm? I have my physician at the ready should anything go wrong," he answered calmly, glancing at the bottle in his hand with interest, "Do you know anything of conotoxins Watson?" I gave him a disapproving frown and thought for a moment. The term did sound familiar.

"I think I recently read something of them. Is that what that is?" I nodded toward the bottle.

"Mm," he smiled and adjusted his position on the stool, preparing his arm for injection.

"Holmes…" I warned, but he ignored me and continued to grin like a Cheshire cat as he selected a vein.

"I wanted to try this one first because the label on the bottle says the toxin is from a variety of gastropod nicknamed 'The Cigarette Snail,'" he practically sang as he drove the needle home. But his mention of the creature from which the poison comes suddenly caused all the confused pathways of my mind to connect and I realized what real danger he was in.

"NO!" I shouted and leapt upon him, yanking the syringe from his hand and indeed from his flesh, eliciting a yelp from him and causing a small trail of blood to seep from the wound.

"Watson, what on earth?! Ohh…" he groaned and fell backwards off the stool as I dashed for my bag upon the table.

"Holmes! Holmes, talk to me!" I yelled, giving no thought to the objects I was knocking over as I yanked open the bag and ran back to where he lay, gripping his abdomen.

"Watson…" he moaned, "wha…?"

"It's a neurotoxin," I managed to get out as I pulled a cork off of the tip of one of my scalpels and cut a clean and straight line along the vein where he had injected himself. I leaned up to his table and grabbed a bottle of formaldehyde.

I fairly stripped the screws of the lid as I tore it off the bottle and sloshed the liquid over his arm. I was distinctly worried when he showed no reaction but to continue writhing on the floor.

"Can you tell me your symptoms?" I asked breathlessly, and he opened his eyes a fraction to peer at me.

"Can't…breathe…" he choked out, "cramps…can't see, and…my arm, I...it's…numb," he gasped with some effort as I found his carotid artery to check his pulse. Racing…and skipping beats.

"Put your arms back behind your head," I directed and tried to get him to uncurl and release the death grip he had on his stomach. He did so with some effort, transferring his vice-like hold to my wrist.

"Watson…" he gasped in pain, and to my horror his face began to slacken. His eyelids drooped and his grip on my wrist loosened as his breathing grew shallow.

"No! Holmes, you need to breathe!" I cried, fumbling in my bag for a tourniquet with my free hand. I fastened it tightly on his upper arm, wondering if it was going to be too little too late as his hand fell from my wrist to the floor with a resounding thud.

I stared terrified into his half-open but unseeing eyes. Paralysis was another symptom.

I checked his pulse again and was relieved to still find it strong, but irregular. If he slipped into a coma…I shuddered at the thought. But as long as his heart was beating and his lungs filled with air—

The latter had stopped. He wasn't breathing.

I believe my own heart skipped a beat at that point as I began artificial respiration, and I found myself silently praying to that God who I too often ignored to spare the life of my friend.

How long I struggled to keep oxygen reaching his brain I do not know, but as I continued the insufflations I became aware of his arm swelling at the injection site. That was a good sign. Blood was still flowing and his immune system was responding.

There is no treatment for the venom of the _conus geographus_ but to continue life support functions until the body metabolizes the poison. And as long as Holmes required my lungs to keep his working I could not go for help.

And indeed I needed it, for despite all my experience with neurotoxins and their treatment, my sanity left me by degrees every time I lifted my eyes from my task to his pale face.

It occurred to me that I was struggling to see and I glanced to the window behind me to find that the sun no longer shined. How long had I been at this?

I checked Holmes's pulse again and found it weak, but slower and regular. I leaned down again to give him another breath and pulled back in surprise when his chest rose of its own accord.

I watched him take three shallow but regular breaths and released the one I had been holding. He would live…

* * *

Three hours later his condition remained the same, and I had sent a hysterical Mrs. Hudson off to my home in Paddington to let my poor wife know what had become of me.

I think I had drunken no less than three brandies this last hour to steady myself, and now they were affecting my brain as I looked at the pale, still form of my friend in his bed where I had moved him after I was certain he could breathe on his own.

The reality of how close he had come to dying struck me with so much force, I was surprised I was able to think at all. How could I have allowed such a thing? Had I taken complete leave of my senses?

I took another sip of brandy as I watched his chest slowly rise and fall. The thought that my failure to act could have been the death of him was a chilling thought.

I was running the Hippocratic Oath through my mind when a soft cry reached my ears.

"Watson?" I was at his side in an instant.

"Oh God, Holmes…"

"…what happened?" he asked weakly.

"You…you nearly died," I managed, my voice cracking on the morbid word. His eyes widened.

"What?" I drew a deep breath and tried to steady my nerves.

"You remember the conotoxin? You injected yourself?" I asked, and his eyes darkened as he thought about it. Oh, what a relief to see his eyes shining with life!

His brow cleared and he looked at me in surprise as the events came back to him.

"I…injected myself," he said weakly, "and I remember a terrible burning pain, but nothing more." I averted my eyes as I answered his silent question.

"You stopped breathing…" I heard his sudden intake of breath, and I continued, "You have been in a coma."

"How long?" he asked.

"A few hours. You have no idea how fortunate you are," I said, turning back to him, "most patients who enter respiratory failure don't survive," I said shakily. I could see from the sharpness of his grey eyes how truly moved he was by the fact, and I looked away again, the fear I had felt during the crisis sweeping over me once more.

I looked back at him though as I felt his thin hand grasp mine with a strength I would not have thought him capable of in his condition.

"Thank you Watson," he intoned steadily, and I managed a somewhat grim smile and nodded to him.

"Just promise me Holmes, that next time you will wait for the guinea pigs."

He laughed silently, "I promise."

* * *

_Author's notes: I had this idea when I read chapter 23 of __**Vows Made in Storms**__, but had no opportunity to execute it until now. Let me assure the reader, that every medical fact in this fic was exhaustively researched and is one-hundred percent accurate._

_The Cone Snail is found in tropical waters near coral reefs. The toxin that Holmes injected himself with was from the most deadly variety, and is nicknamed 'the cigarette snail' because it is said the victim will only have time to smoke a cigarette before dying. Most cases of conotoxin poisoning are fatal._

_I'm happy to answer any questions about the cone snail and conotoxins and whatever else you may be interested in._


	4. Regrettable Resolutions

_A/N: Prompt # 4 – Use the 'Sherlock Holmes blood test' in some way. Explain why we never hear of it again, use it for the conclusion of a crime, or whatever you wish._

* * *

Compelling Curiosity

Prompt 4 – Regrettable Resolutions

Upon peering into the windows of Baker Street, my readers would expect to find me at my desk, writing as I am now, and Sherlock Holmes languishing in his armchair in a cocaine stupor, possibly scraping at his violin on such a dreary day as was the one of which I now write in the summer of 1881.

But instead it was I clad in a dressing gown, lazing upon the settee, and my companion nowhere to be seen as the sun beat upon the windowpanes, entreating entrance and making me contemplate trading my position of comfort for a cool bath.

So I sat smoking my pipe and musing about the heat and the untidy state we had allowed the sitting room to regress to, until a ring at the bell and the sound of voices below gave me cause to move.

I slowly rose to my feet, favoring my left leg which was still racked with pain, and straightened my appearance as best could as the landlady admitted the caller.

"Why, Stamford!" I cried in genuine surprise as he entered with a grin and shut the door behind him.

"Hallo Watson," he greeted me amiably, as he discarded his suit jacket without invitation and mopped at his brow with a handkerchief, "how is the leg? Holmes told me of that nasty blackmailing business," he said, his gaze darting to the cane I was leaning upon.

"Oh it's all right. Nothing that time won't heal," I said, motioning him into the room and reseating myself on the settee, "What brings you to Baker Street?"

"Your friend left some of his things at the lab," he indicated his bag which he had placed by the door, "and I thought I'd bring them round and check on the both of you." He pulled a chair from the table and straddled it, draping his arms over its high back and twiddling his fingers together anxiously.

"I didn't know Holmes had been to Bart's today?" I asked.

"Only for a moment. He came in muttering about ammonia and fussed over one of the back tables for about half an hour before running out again. Left all of his things on the table, including some papers, and as the lab was closing I didn't want them to be disturbed by the custodial staff. Heaven knows what he was working on.

"He was in a terrible mood too," he shifted his hands up to tap on the top of the chair, "I greeted him when he came in and all I got for my effort was a snarl and a look that would have made the devil himself turn tail and run. By the Lord, he really hates that job doesn't he?"

"Yes I'm afraid so. Had I known what it would lead to, I never would have pressed him to market that test for blood stains he was so proud of."

"Yes, although I'm rather surprised at his attitude."

"Oh?"

"Yes, for as long as I have known him, he seemed to want the fame and recognition. But now that his name is in every forensics journal I believe he has changed his mind."

"Yes, he has been in a foul mood as of late. Though I am inclined to agree with you. He seems to deplore the fact that he never received his dues in the area of criminal pursuits, and yet now he cringes upon seeing his own name in print."

"Well, it is his own fault for taking the job with Scotland Yard, though I daresay he is ideally suited for it. There is no better place to pursue chemical and criminal research in one accord."

"I suspect he would rather confine his professional talents to one area though. While chemistry interests him, it is only on the hunt that any fire is in his eyes."

Stamford rubbed his chin thoughtfully, "Perhaps," he remarked, and then rose from his twisted position and took up his jacket. "I must be off now, or my wife will have me cooking dinner all the rest of the week. And I'm afraid spices are nothing like alkalines. Good day to you Watson."

"Good day," I echoed, and he left me to my musings in the bright heat.

But not five minutes later the man of the hour walked in, and threw his hat and gloves upon the table, sending silverware and a teacup clattering to the floor.

"I hate that job!" he echoed Stamford's words of a few minutes ago as he tore off his jacket and waistcoat, casting them aside with a flourish as he picked his way through the mess to his armchair.

"So I deduced," I said somewhat hotly as I stared at the broken teacup. While he was out all day, I had to bear the ill humor of our landlady, who preferred things shipshape.

He collapsed across his chair and put his hand to his brow and stared disdainfully at the ceiling.

"It's always 'Mr. Holmes do this, Mr. Holmes do that, Mr. Holmes the man from the paper is here for that interview,'" he said, his voice taught with emotion, "I could have never been in the army, Doctor," he twisted around to look at me, "I could never follow orders the way you must have been required to."

He looked so pathetic in his despair that I made the effort to walk from the settee to my own chair opposite him, and offered him a cigar from my box upon the table.

"Thank you," he said with sincerity as he held a match to it and drew on it deeply. "I cannot abide those forensics officials any longer. They think nothing more of me than another tool when in the chemical labs, and then whenever a reporter shows his face at the yard who have they chosen as their proverbial poster child? Me! I won't take it anymore, I just won't!"

"I thought you enjoyed chemical research?"

"Only inasmuch as it pertained to my profession. I never wished research to _be_ my profession. And now my name is known only as Scotland Yard's resident chemist. I _wanted _to be known as a detective!" he wailed, gesturing wildly with his hands and casting cigar ash all over the rug.

I eyed the grey flecks as I pondered his emotional outburst.

"Do you not believe," I suggested cautiously, "that your current work will not lead to more attention within your desired field of work?"

"Not if I am to be at the beck and call of the police for the rest of my life!" He rose with catlike grace and began pacing the small space between my chair and his nervously, "And not now that my name has been made famous as the next Henry Cavendish!"

"Who?"

"It is not important," he dismissed the question with a wave of his hand, "What i_s _important is that I do not want to be a chemist, Doctor, I want to be a detective! And I _never_ want to speak to another journalist as long as I live!"

"I thought you would have appreciated some recognition, the way you complain about the official forces always receiving credit for your work." I suddenly found myself under his glare, and I do believe the summer sun held less heat than his eyes at that moment.

"For my _art_ Doctor, not for these meager chemical diversions! Had I known that this job would take my art from me, I never would have accepted it. I don't care about the pay or the fame. They are not worth this misery!" he shouted, and then suddenly clutched a hand to his chest and pinched his eyes shut.

I started, resulting in a twinge of pain from my own wound.

"All right Holmes?" I asked anxiously.

"All right," he peered at me through a half-open eye and set himself back in his chair. "Could you spend your life doing something other than what you were ordained by God to do, Watson?" he asked with sincerity.

"No I don't believe I could."

"Ah, well that's it then. I'll tell them tomorrow."

"You are quitting then?"

"Definitely."

"But what of your fame? The 'Sherlock Holmes Test for Bloodstains' is practically a household name in forensic laboratories."

He sighed, "At least it is the field of criminal study."

"Perhaps one final article informing the public of your change in profession would solve both the problems of unemployment and infamy as a chemist?" I reasoned.

"No!" he snapped, "I could die happy if my name never again appeared in print."

"You don't want the recognition at all, then?"

"No, not if it threatens my work. I won't allow anything ever again to threaten my art," he said with finality as he puffed at the cigar. I blew a ring of grey smoke as I thought over his words.

"At least you only lost a couple of months. Some men work their whole lives in a job they are not satisfied with."

"If you ever catch me straying toward such an end Doctor, mention that dreadful test for bloodstains to me."

"I shall," I promised. And we have not spoken of it to this day.

* * *

_Author's notes: Phew! This one was a good bit of trouble. Ironically, I have my mother to thank for the idea. The irony is that she has no love for fiction, though she did read the canon once as a child. But her creativity knows no bounds. Or rather, her knowledge of human psychology._

_Anyway…for the sixth time this week, I am publishing something without proofreading it first. Please forgive any egregious errors, and do not hesitate to point them out. Thanks for reading!_


	5. Diametric Distinctions

_A/N: From the ninth page of STUD, I quote: I laughed at this cross-examination. "I keep a bull pup," I said, "and I object to rows because my nerves are shaken, and I get up at all sorts of ungodly hours, and I am extremely lazy. I have another set of vices when I'm well, but those are the principal ones at present."_

_Prompt # 5 – What exactly was that other set of vices?_

* * *

Compelling Curiosity

Prompt 5 – Diametric Distinctions

"…_What have you to confess now? It's just as well for two fellows to know the worst of one another before they begin to live together."_

_"I keep a bull pup," I said, "and I object to rows because my nerves are shaken, and I get up at all sorts of ungodly hours, and I am extremely lazy. I have another set of vices when I'm well, but those are the principal ones at present."_

I could have laughed aloud at the absurdity of the words I was reading. How young and foolish the both of us had been. Truly, if either of us had had any sense at all, we would have turned and run the opposite direction as quickly as you can say "Bob's your uncle."

But we hadn't. And I was surprised to find myself feeling glad at the fact.

No…no, very little surprised me anymore when it came to my regards for my dear Watson. The two of us had somehow survived all the trials that accompany the sharing of rooms and the typical grating of nerves that result when two strong personalities come into continuous close contact, and I was truly grateful of the fact.

It is a strange thing about people and their attributes. One always expects those with opposite vices to oppose each other, and those with similar ones to blend as easily as honey might when added to tea.

But in fact it is quite to the contrary, as the corresponding personalities will mix only as well as oil and water, while the ones that are dissimilar find that special sweetness that Providence has gifted to mortals in the form of friendship.

I lift the teacup that gave rise to my analogy and idly swirl the dark amber liquid. I can see in the bottom of the cup, some of that rich substance that has been my hobby and livelihood for the past seven years. Though I hardly need any financial reparation, I see no harm in the accumulation of capital if in the end it is to go to a noble cause.

Rather, it is a convenient excuse I employ alongside old age in my dealings with the vast public who have come to know of me and still request my services, though it has been many a year since I turned my faculties toward that occupation which is my first and only passion.

As I sip at the tea I become more aware of a fact I have known from the first day I took to my diversion in Sussex—I do not like honey. Watson would extol its virtues as a healing agent among other benefits, but I am afraid that I have become accustomed to his lavish tastes over our years together.

Vices indeed! He was quite complimentary to himself in his hodgepodge of publications he likes to call my cases. The only accuracies represented there in relation to himself are his abominable temper and distinct lack of reasoning ability.

He failed however, to mention any of the depravity he carried into our old bachelor's quarters. For one there was his own addiction, to alcohol. As many a night as he sat awake worrying for me as I prowled London in search of a criminal, I worried about him being caught up by an overambitious constable as he stumbled his way back from the club.

And when he would arrive back at our rooms, positively besotted and grinning like the cat that got the canary, I wondered of his other occupations of the evening.

But I shall not add any slur to the name of my friend that he has not already seen fit to mention, even if only in passing. For example, his club involvement. He is as much a hound of White's as my elder brother is of the Diogenes.

One evening he persuaded me to accompany him there and I vowed never to set foot inside another such building as long as I lived. The term 'gentlemen's club' hardly applied, what with the boisterous activity around the betting tables and the less than proprietous conversations about women.

The only redeeming feature of the place was its vast library. And its excellent cognac. One cannot spend so many years under one roof with a person and not pick up some of their habits. I have already mentioned Watson's affinity for luxury, in the form of our preference for sugar to honey in tea. Or did I? I fear my memory begins to fail me…

But indeed, I believe that when we first began sharing rooms any small economic favor the decrease in the price of rent caused him, he immediately spent on liquor, fine clothing, and books.

How he loved his books! I believe his first excursion from the flat was to find the closest affordable bookstore. And there was hardly a day when he returned from any outing without a new book to adorn the small shelf above his desk. And then the shelf next to my desk. And every shelf in the flat, the floor next to all the furniture, under his bed…

Truly, if one walked into his room they would be hard pressed to navigate for all the books scattered about and stacked against the walls. But untidiness was not the worst of his habits by any means. So many I things I could write of…but I shan't. If nothing else, I will do my friend the respect he never did me and keep all of his uncouth personal secrets to myself.

I wonder if he would not feel a twinge of guilt were he to see this journal and know of my feelings. It is not that I have ever disliked his writing, but rather his impersonal treatment of it all, as if he and I were characters in a story and not real breathing people. But he excels at his craft.

I often ask him to write more these days to stimulate my fading memory if nothing else. Reading his work, it is almost as if he is here conversing with me as in times of old.

Indeed, it was just recently that I asked him to recount that incident in Cornwall, more for my personal fulfillment that anything else. Hearing his voice, dripping with romance and mordacity but still maintaining a professional air as he addresses the minutiae of a case, makes my heart swell with a pride of which I did not know I was capable.

And I think I must renege upon my promise to draw up my own account of our cases. I could not equal his writing and I fear that would be the only thought in my head as I wrote. It has been such every time I have lifted my pen for any purpose other than recording my research. Even now writing this, the thought that I could not meet his standards of a well-written story and still accomplish my goal plagues my mind.

But I have yet time to reconcile my mind upon that subject. Right now, I have a decision to make, as to whether or not I shall accept another case. I would never consider it, but this one comes from Whitehall. I wonder if I should consult Watson on the subject…

As of late I have made it a habit to drive up to London and join him at his club, loathsome as the place is, or occasionally indulge in a Turkish bath. Indeed, his sybaritism has had a lasting effect on me over our thirty years of acquaintance.

I suppose, as it has given me cause to make contact with him every other weekend, that that particular vice is forgivable.

* * *

_Author's notes: Boy, this took a life of it's own that I liked so much I couldn't bear to curb it to better fit the prompt, though I think I did it justice._

_This is my first very serious attempt at writing for Holmes. I've never been successful at it, and I am extremely nervous publishing this. But you be the judge, and please give me your honest opinion; does it sound like the Holmes of canon?_


	6. Admirable Ambitions

_A/N: Prompt #6 - How exactly did Watson find out Holmes knew nothing of practical gardening?_

* * *

Compelling Curiosity

Prompt 6 – Admirable Ambitions

The November of 1881 was a hallmark month for me. It marked the beginning of my no longer requiring a cane to walk, for one thing. And it was upon my descent to the sitting room on what promised to be a brisk and blustery day that another notable fact of the month unfolded.

I had no sooner settled gratefully before the fire when Sherlock Holmes appeared from his room, seeming quite distracted. The erubescence of his face confirmed that much, as he suddenly caught sight of me and his eyes beckoned me come.

He then disappeared back into his room and I rose to follow, but upon entering I found it empty. I glanced about, puzzled for a moment until I heard his voice traveling upwards and echoing as in an empty house.

"Hurry man!" were his words, and I followed the sound to an open door on the other side of his bookcase. There were stairs leading below, so I descended and exited through a door at the bottom, and so found myself in the alley that separates our building from number 219.

To my left lay the street, and to the right stood Holmes, gesturing me forward with a most dire look upon his face. I followed him to the small yard behind the flat, expecting some terrible scene that would explain his manner. But all appeared normal.

There was the solitary plane tree, the scant lawn, and our landlady Mrs. Hudson's two rose bushes which adorned either side of the door that led to the kitchen. My earlier thought that it would be a brisk day was confirmed by the cool breeze that was whistling past my ears and dislocating my hair.

But unless Holmes was concerned with the odd wind-blown leaf disrupting the perfect green of the lawn, I failed to see anything that should cause him anxiety, and I told him so. His response was to take me by the arm and lead me to the rose bushes.

"There," he said, pointing a long finger at the deep pink blooms, "just look at them!" he cried in dismay. From his tone, one would have thought the florets were afire, but the only thing that was amiss was a slight browning of the edges of the petals and a waning of the tint that often comes with overexposure to water.

"I fail to see your cause for concern," I gave him a rather turbid gaze, and he rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"Don't you see? They're dying!" he wailed.

I studied them closely, "What makes you say that?" He looked at me as a teacher might look at a student who has failed to absorb any information after a full term of study.

He leaned down and delicately held a bloom toward me, gently caressing the browned edges of the petals.

"You see? They're all dying! Only one week ago they were all in perfect health…"

He seemed absolutely horror-stricken. I blinked a few times as realization hit me.

"Um, Holmes…" I began timidly, "do you not know about roses?"

"Apparently I do not, if after a week of watering they are all heading for the grave."

I tried not to laugh, "Holmes they are not dying."

"No?"

"No, they have simply been exposed to too much water. I'm surprised Mrs. Hudson would do that…" I mused as I looked at the roses, which had obviously not been properly watered nor pruned for about the interval Holmes had mentioned.

I glanced at him, and the look on his face was of someone trying to surreptitiously conceal something. Something he had said suddenly struck me.

"You've been watering the roses for the past week?"

"…yes," he admitted.

"And you know nothing of how to care for them."

"…no."

"Then why have you been doing so?"

His blushing silence answered my question, "That explosion last week…"

"Maintaining the garden has been my punishment, though if I kill her new French roses, I daresay she'll throw me out. And I've certainly deserved it before this. But she is so very proud of them…" he sighed despondently. I thought for a moment.

"I don't recognize them. French, you say?"

"Apparently a newly developed species. I believe she called them 'Madame Isaac Pereire,' as if I would have the slightest idea who that is or why roses were named after the lady."

I decided it would be a waste of my time to enlighten him on the subject of rose cultivating and naming, and turned my thoughts to more practical matters.

"Well, the reason the petals are turning brown is because you have been watering them."

He blinked, "Is that not the objective?"

"You need to water the _roots_ of the plant. Watering the blooms will only cause this," I sighed as I examined one of the unfortunate flowers, "And has Mrs. Hudson been expecting you to prune these?"

He blushed agaain and his eyes darted around to everything in the yard but my face.

"Here, let me show you…" and I began explaining about trimming above a stem containing five leaves, and about the angle to cut at so the new buds will not be drowned, and he looked on with genuine interest.

After my demonstration, he took up the gardening shears and under my supervision (and not without some complaining) pruned both bushes quite adequately.

"Now, dispose of those trimmings before Mrs. Hudson returns and sees them. Honestly, I'm surprised you have gotten away with it thus far."

"As am I," he called back as he unceremoniously deposited the clippings in the alley we had come from, "The way she talks of the plants, I would have thought she would be inspecting them every day."

"It is rather curious," I remarked, looking at the newly pruned and now flowerless bushes, "I wonder why she hasn't been?"

Our thougths were suddenly interrupted as the kitchen door opened and the lady herself stepped outside, startling us both.

"Oh, there you are. Gentlemen, your breakfast has been laid, but…oh my!" she exclaimed, looking at the roses, "What on earth have you done to my roses Mr. Holmes?!" she asked incredulously, and not without a bit of fire.

Holmes was silent, though gave me a look as though I had somehow betrayed him, which I answered with my own look of complete bafflement. I had no idea how she knew anything was amiss, for the leaves were full and green and there wasn't a stray petal as evidence of his folly.

"How do you mean?" I answered for Holmes.

"These have just been pruned today! You've been ignoring my roses?!" she looked again at Holmes, her puzzlement rapidly turning to anger.

"Well, I—"

"Can you not be trusted with any responsibility?!"

I felt like laughing, seeing a woman scarcely a decade our senior rake the young detective over the coals, so to speak. But it didn't seem fair to watch him suffer for something he truly had no control over. So I made the situation worse.

"Please forgive him Mrs. Hudson, but Mr. Holmes has no knowledge of practical gardening."

She blinked, "What?" I shrugged in response and Holmes turned beet red, "What grown man doesn't know how to tend a garden?"

Holmes turned even redder as she went into a lecture about men's lack of domestic skills and gave us a virtual thesis on why all men should be married young if they ever want to succeed at any domestic task later in life. It was a rather good argument, but the blustery weather was beginning to make my leg ache, so I interrupted her with that fact and she hurriedly ushered us both inside.

Holmes was back up the stairs in a heartbeat, and I followed a bit more calmly, my mind swimming with ideas.

I sat at my desk and took my pen to a manuscript I had been compiling, adding a line in the margin:

_Sherlock Holmes -- his limits_

_1. Knowledge of Literature. -- Nil._

_2. " " Philosophy. -- Nil._

_3. " " Astronomy. -- Nil._

_4. " " Politics. -- Feeble._

_5. " " Botany. -- Variable._

_Well up in belladonna, opium, and poisons generally._

_Knows nothing of practical gardening._

I underlined my new statement with a flourish, which drew Holmes's attention.

"What are you writing?" he asked curiously, starting toward me. I closed the manuscript in a hurry.

"Oh, nothing," I grinned.

* * *

_Author's notes: I'm sorry it's a day late, but I was out of the house nearly all day yesterday and was falling asleep at the keyboard when I tried to write in the evening._

_Okay, so I made an attempt at humor. I don't think it worked…that is, I don't think it ended up sounding canonical. Please let me know…_

_Anybody have a Mme Isaac Pereire? I didn't think so ;-)_


	7. Recondite Reflections

_A/N: From the second chapter of STUD, Holmes tells Watson "I know well that I have it in me to make my name famous." But after the Return (EMPT and NORW) for example, Holmes tells Lestrade that "the work is its own reward" and that he wants his name kept completely out of the matter. I already know what the BBC puts forth as the theory for said change, but..._

_Prompt 7 – Explain this change of mindset pre-and-post-Return. Give any reason you wish, but be convincing._

_I use a lot of "R's" in my alliterative titles, don't I? Oh, and I have no knowledge of how the BBC answers this, just so y'all know…_

_Oh, and I'm not leaving a note at the end, because I feel this will be more effective without interruption from me. So all I care to say about this, was it was very, very hard…in more ways than one._

* * *

Compelling Curiosity

Prompt 7 – Recondite Reflections

1 January 1895

It is ten minutes past midnight. I doubt any writing will be coherent, for I fear I have taken more than my limit of champagne, and surely there are warm and…fuzzy bubbles dancing in my head. I use 'fuzzy,' for that is the most accurate term for the sensation…

It's an interesting thing about champagne… It has such an aura of class and wealth about it, yet hardness in its substance that betrays it as being equal to every other form of alcohol in existence.

But I am rambling. What was it I wanted to remember? There is a reason I opened my journal, but I fear my earlier thought about the champagne was correct. It is impairing my faculties.

I wonder if it affects Holmes so. He is sitting before the fire, sipping his champagne with a delicacy that betrays his place among the upper-class of our dear nation. I wonder, had he chosen to follow the path of his ancestors what he would be doing?

But I cannot think clearly enough to speculate. Still, I wonder.

I wonder what Holmes is thinking of. He is staring into the fire… That will be bad for his vision, as close as he is. He could burn his corneas. How can he stare so focused with that heat bearing upon him?

But his gaze shifts…oh, to the cocaine bottle. He hasn't touched it since his return to London. It is still covered in the layers of dust from those three years and the one after.

Dust…I remember, when I moved back into the flat, my desk had nearly a centimeter of dust covering its flat, bare surface. We spent much of that day coughing and laughing actually, as we tidied the rooms and rearranged all of our possessions.

That was such a happy time. For a month, he had been the definition of mirth, and I was obliged to trail in his rapturous wake. And then he had sobered.

After the flurry of activity surrounding his return, a shocking return to normalcy hit the both of us, as he began receiving cases and my practice, while no longer a full-time occupation, was certainly making its existence known.

I was rather surprised when Holmes didn't object to my maintaining a small list of clients, as it meant I could not assist him as often as in days of old. But he was perfectly congenial about it, saying he understood that a man must obey his calling.

But I wonder…if I did not miss my calling. For I find myself, more often than not, constantly writing. Always making the odd note on any scrap of paper, writing my thoughts as I am now, composing literature…

Although I don't do much of the latter anymore. I recall, when I first suggested to Holmes that I publish an account of his return to London, he was vehement in that I should never publish any of his cases again.

He never gave me a reason, beyond the fact that he didn't want fame, that his work was his reward.

I agree with the principle of work being rewarding. If a man enjoys his profession, then he never truly works a day in his life.

Though with Holmes, I suspect another reason for his prohibition. In fact, I suspect prevarication.

I suspect it was something that happened while he was in Europe that made him change his mind. For he used to like my publishing his works. Those two novels that he would publicly scorn, I would find him reading on a restless night in those years when all was joy.

And his compliment was always that his name was known through my writing, as he wanted it known. He received the credit for his work that youthful vanity demanded, and he wasn't just named another detective, but his art given attention in a way that he knew it never would receive otherwise.

But now…I'm not certain of his feelings on the subject. He has always danced around it if ever I bring it up.

That is something else I have noticed.

He isn't…the same. While he can seem inestimably cheery, it is artificial without a doubt. I know I am the only one who would notice, but for all his sunny attitudes, there is an underlying caustic tone that is beginning to come to the fore.

He is still staring at that cocaine bottle. At least he isn't burning his eyes by staring at the fire anymore.

Oh, now he is staring at me. I wonder if—

"_What are you writing Watson?" Sherlock Holmes asked his friend._

"_Nothing," Watson replied._

"_I rather think you are writing something. I have heard the near constant movement of the pen against the paper, broken only when you dip the pen in the ink. Therefore you are writing something, and very concentrated on the subject," the Detective answered in a tone as one might use when lecturing a student._

I wonder if he knows…what he has done to me.

"_I told you, it is nothing," the Doctor answered tersely._

"_One of our cases? You may record them if you wish. Your records may prove useful to me when I compile my monograph on the art of deduction and its relation to crime," he said nonchalantly, gesturing with his champagne glass._

"_No, I am not writing one of __**your**__ cases," he answered hotly._

How my soul aches…

"_Is something wrong my dear fellow? I daresay, you look rather pale. Can I get you more champagne?"_

"_Yes."_

How my heart breaks…

"_Here you are. My, but you are pale! For heaven's sake Watson, do go to bed soon. We need not celebrate the holiday if these late hours are going to have such an effect on you."_

How can he not understand! It is not about logic or deduction or late hours. It is not about money or publishing or champagne. It is not even about romance against reason.

"_All right." He did not look at his friend. But the man looked at him, curious as to his terse response. It was not like him._

"_What are you writing?" He was worried now, but did not show it. It was not his character to give anything of himself._

If a man is too merciful, it will eventually kill him.

"_I told you, nothing. Now," he turned on his friend in a rage, "if you are going to take that blasted drug do it and be done. Don't stare at it infinitely torturing me! Make a decision for one or the other."_

I've been his before the first dawn and the first dusk. I've been the frost and the fire. My life has faded. It is all covered in layers of dust. Because it hurts so much, to give your life over to someone and not receive anything in return.

The one thing I had, the one thing he gave me…the only way I was truly able to know him, he stole from me. If he knew…how he has broken my spirit…

"_I am…I am sorry, Watson I did not mean to disturb you with my thoughts," his friend answered his outburst with stunned shock._

"_Just…go. I don't care anymore."_

* * *

_1 January 1895_

_It was ten minutes after one o'clock in the morning._

_The Writer awoke with a sore neck and head. He was still sitting at his desk._

_He found the stem of an empty champagne glass in one hand, and in the other… He blinks away the sleep, brought on by alcohol and emotion._

_There should have been a pen in his right hand, but it was empty. Oh there was the pen, on his open journal._

_Wait, didn't he close the journal? He inspected it carefully._

_There should not have been that much writing. But there, below his fair hand, was the bolder script of his friend. Four solid paragraphs of firm, clear writing._

_Oh wait, there was one smudge. A small drop of water had fallen upon the page…_

I do not have your gift for rhetoric, but I shall attempt to explain myself and only hope that you can forgive me. To the casual observer, you and I are as dissimilar as night is from day. But in essence, we are the same. We are both passionate, though we express it differently. We are both intellectual, but we employ our talents in different ways. Indeed, from my description one would determine there are more differences than similarities. I caution against emotion, and you embrace it. I search for depth and you analyze the surface. Or rather, it is the other way around. Well…I am not certain. Ah, I have proved my point.

And my point is that I share your feelings. When I was in Europe, and I learned that you were publishing **our** cases, I arranged to have _The Strand_ delivered to me. I have read every one of your accounts, and what a weight they were upon me, upon my soul. Your words caused a conflict within me. At times, they were driving me further away from London and you. But then, they were also drawing me back. I cannot describe the turmoil of my mind and my spirit. After three years, I felt that my emotions would destroy me. I had to make a decision. You know the result.

But I was fooling myself into thinking it was that simple. I cannot…explain these feelings. But I am plagued, night and day with them. Tearing at me, unexplainable…feelings about life, and about you, and my work, and…what is the meaning of it all? I am sorry. That is not clear. But it is the closest I have come to being able to identify any of it. Except, when I read your writing. Your writing amplifies all these feelings to the extreme, and makes them impossible to suppress. And I cannot live with them. They will destroy me.

And so I destroyed you, my dear friend. I believe I knew…but I didn't. I did not truly know, and for that I am inestimably sorry. I would like to say that you may write again, but the mere thought drives me to the very edge of insanity. So I must be firm in my resolution, and can only hope that you can maintain that mercy which has somehow sustained me over the years. Perhaps, in the absence of writing, there is some way I can sustain you as well.

_Watson looked around the room. The gas had been turned down, but the fire still burned, casting brilliant vermilion reflections on the objects in the room._

_There was his friend's empty champagne glass upon the coffee table, a bright focal point to the scene of an evening past._

_The half empty champagne bottle stood also on the table, and an afghan upon the floor at the foot of his friend's chair._

_The cocaine bottle still stood on the mantle… But it was no longer dusty._

_A matching drop of water fell next to the first upon the ink-covered page._


	8. Illusory Ideations

_A/N: Prompt #8 – Use this phrase somehow, picked at random from the third chapter of STUD (from Lestrade's discussion of the corpse in the Brixton Road): "...and I am no chicken." :-)_

_I would like to say something about my answer to yesterday's prompt, now that I have somewhat recovered from it. I realize it was somewhat confusing, but as I re-read it today, checking for errors, I have to say that for the first time I was impressed by my own writing; so if you did not review that chapter I would truly appreciate your opinions, as I believe it to be my best work. Now then, on with the show!_

* * *

Compelling Curiosity

Prompt 8 – Illusory Ideations

Life is dull. Or at least, that is my conclusion.

Everything is ordinary. There is nothing fanciful or bizarre in the course of any given day. The hours pass with as much life and excitement as does a commencement ceremony at Cambridge.

In the whole of two months in the year of 1880, I had only one case worthy of any recognition. It was a textbook example of reasoning from effects to causes. Though I wonder that I bother to bring it up as it was a dismal failure.

It was a commonplace murder with no real points of interest. But the criminal escaped. He may have been less than skilled in committing crimes efficiently, but apparently was smart enough to run once he knew I was on to him.

Though I wonder at his logic in running. The name of Jack Stamp had been in every paper and every police bulletin in all of Britain. I expected to hear of his arrest any day, although I would have liked to have caught him myself.

I would have had him too, if not for the bumbling of the official forces. I was prepared to take him, and then the police charged in like the cavalry, guns blazing. Unfortunately, their performance more resembled a circus than an organized army.

I need not mention details for the reader to imagine the scene at that warehouse, when I had stood face to face with the villain and was suddenly disrupted by every door being opened and seemingly every constable on the force stumbling over each other to get inside.

Needless to say, I was slow with my revolver, Stamp was quick on his feet, and the police were as helpful as ever. Meaning not at all.

And just as the officials receive public credit for victory, they see to it that I receive public credit for failure. Two months, and I did not hear the end of it from Scotland Yard. Gregson and Lestrade were particularly amused by the situation.

One interesting thing though, is those two had begun working together after that incident. Not only did it decrease their productivity, but I'm fairly certain it's a sign of the Apocalypse.

But they believed that because I had been beaten once (no thanks to them) that they could together best me in every case. I am honestly surprised that I was not called in to investigate one of their murders after they entered into partnership.

Although, if one were to kill the other, then perhaps the color of my existence would not be so drab.

But it may be prudent to let the reader be the judge. For there was a conclusion to the Stamp case, the events of which were more singular than the original investigation.

But I realize that I have erred in assuming that the reader is also familiar with the publications of my friend Dr. Watson. If indeed you are, then nothing I have said will sound confusing to you. If not, I believe introductions are in order.

I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I make my profession as a consulting detective. The men of whom I speak, Inspectors Lestrade and Gregson, are the best of Scotland Yard. Though the term 'best' is subjective.

And I can add another informative fact to the situation of which Watson's readers are not aware. Gregson and Lestrade were quite amiable with each other before they began working together. After that doomed alliance began, so did their dislike for each other, thus beginning their competition.

It was during the conclusion to the Stamp case that their rivalry became known to me. They came to me one afternoon, bustling up the stairs so vigorously that I dared to hope for relief from my ennui.

"Well well, should I ask what brings Scotland Yard's finest to my humble abode?" I greeted them, "or is this simply a social call?"

It was a bit of a shot, but I could not restrain myself as I looked at their flushed, eager faces, barely containing their enthusiasm.

"There's been a murder done sir," began Gregson.

"And we would like your opinion on the matter," Lestrade concluded.

They then stared at me, and I stared back, realizing there was more to this than a simple murder. But I felt that it would be rather imprudent to strike at the real issue if they were not prepared to tell me.

"Are you going to tell me about it gentlemen? Or do you hold my abilities in such high regard that you believe I can deduce the solution from simply observing you? Beyond the fact that you have just come from Holborn, I can tell nothing. And that may not have any bearing on the case."

I grinned at their astonishment.

"How ever did you know that?!" Gregson exclaimed.

"Furthermore, I deduce you have been in the vicinity of Bloomsbury Square. The particular dark soil that adorns the bottom cuff of your left trouser is only found there," I indicated to Gregson, "But surely the murder did not take place there?"

"No," answered Lestrade, for Gregson was busy eyeing the cuffs of his trousers, "It took place in an alley on Sicilian Avenue. We were enjoying tea in a nearby restaurant, when we suddenly heard a most bloodcurdling scream. A woman was running down the pavement, crying murder. We immediately stopped her and questioned her, but she was too hysterical to give us any information. But naturally her outburst had caused some activity, and it was not long before we found the body. And not only that, but the murder had just been committed. The body was not yet cold."

"Good heavens man! The culprit was likely in the area, and indeed may be there yet! We must go at once!" I ejaculated with a bit of annoyance. The stupidity of the London policeman continues to baffle me. "Now, give me the particulars," I directed as we exited my small flat and hailed a cab.

"Well, the man had been killed by a single bullet in the back—"

"Did no one hear the shot?" I interrupted.

"No. It is very puzzling…"

"Not at all inspector. There are numerous possibilities, and three which are most probable. But I cannot draw any conclusions without data. So please, enlighten me." I leaned back in the cab and closed my eyes.

I find I can concentrate better without the distractions of the world around me. It is terribly trying at times to have such incredible faculties of observation, for they cannot be turned on and off at random as can a gas lamp.

"Well," Gregson continued, "he was lying on his back—"

I sighed, "You moved the body…"

"Why, yes! How did you know?" I could sense Lestrade rolling his eyes at Gregson's lack of celerity. I certainly was.

"Never mind. Continue."

Gregson cleared his throat, "He was lying on his back halfway between the street and the back yards of the residences. We searched the body and found that he had been robbed—"

"But we searched the yard of the building to the left and found his possessions stowed behind a shrub," Lestrade continued with a smirk at his companion, "They consisted of his watch, pocketbook, and some correspondence. He had a few shillings still in his pockets though."

"That is rather instructive," I opened my eyes and looked at them, "What do you read from it? Nothing? Well then what of the yard on the right?"

"We did not investigate it. It is fenced and gated."

"Dear me! Well, pray continue."

"Near the yard, at the corner of the house, there were clear footprints and signs of someone shuffling about—"

"Shuffling about?"

"The earth was very much disturbed. In fact," he turned to Gregson, "that is likely where you got your trouser dirty," he gave him a toothy grin, which Gregson returned with a scowl.

"I believe it is logical to assume…"

"Assume, Gregson? Tut, my dear fellow, assumptions are rather risky."

The inspector huffed, "Well then, I _deduce_ from the disturbed ground that the killer waited there for his victim."

"That is incorrect Gregson," Lestrade piped up, "The killer was in the street. Or rather, was up a tree…" he trailed off at my critical eyebrow.

"Your evidence?" I asked.

"Well," he grinned haughtily, "I observed numerous leaves and snapped twigs at the base of a tree across the street from the body. I looked them over and they had all been all been broken recently."

He sat smugly, arms crossed in front of him, and Gregson glared at him vehemently.

"Well, I believe the killer waited around the corner."

"Nonsense, he waited in the tree."

Suddenly it was all clear as they turned to me with angry and expectant looks.

"Which of us is right, Mr. Holmes?" Gregson asked. I was baffled. The idea that they should be competing was so absurd, I believe I simply stared at them both for a long minute as I tried to comprehend their motives.

"Well?" Lestrade asked impatiently as the cab drew to a stop.

"I shall inform you of my conclusions once I have made them, which will be very soon," I said as we exited.

The two men started off briskly and I followed them between two close brick buildings and into an alley, where a young constable stood guarding the body.

"All right Durham, stand aside and let's let Mr. Holmes have a look," Lestrade commanded. The young man instantly complied.

The body had been laid face-down so the wound which killed him would be visible. It was a messy wound, through the back of the head, and made by a revolver judging from the nature of the wound.

I requested the body be turned over and placed in the position it was when it had been found. The man had fallen perpendicular to the length of the alley, which explained the inspectors' confusion as to which direction the shot had come from.

However, I could clearly see from the footprints in the soft soil (despite the mess the officials had made of it during their inspection) that the man had entered the alley from the street. I would need to ascertain if Lestrade's supposition about the shooter hiding in the tree was correct. But first, a little about the man to determine possible reasons for the killing.

His face was haggard and his dress slovenly. I deduced from the latter fact that he was unmarried, which was confirmed by his lack of a wedding ring or evidence of there ever being one. The former fact, in addition to his weather-worn boots led me to believe he spent a good deal of time outdoors. And his profession was indicated by no less than three feathers impressed into the soles of his boots, among other indications.

"Well?" Gregson interrupted my study. This situation was becoming rather irksome.

"The man is a fowl fancier and has been for most of his life. He is unmarried, lives in the building to my right, and his murder was intended as a distraction." They were adequately stunned.

"Now, you cannot possibly know that Mr. Holmes!" Lestrade exclaimed hotly.

"Observe, the lack of a wedding ring, the feathers and avian fecal matter upon his boots, and the sign on this building that reads 'Paulsen's Poultry.' I also deduce that the disturbance of the soil which led you Gregson, to suspect the killer hid behind a building, are at the corner of the _left_ building. For if you had examined the yard of the right, you would have observed the poultry. Have you opened his correspondence? No? Well, if you do you shall see that it is all either addressed to or from the unfortunate Mr. Paulsen. Now let us see to these footprints in the dirt at the corner of the left building."

"But Mr. Holmes," Lestrade began as we walked, "what about the murder with intent to distract? What does it mean?"

"I require more facts before I can enlighten you on that piece of the puzzle. But the knowledge that his possessions were cast aside and his coins still in his pockets indicate motives beyond the typical. Ah, here we are!"

It did not take a close examination of the ground to see that not only had a man stood there, but he had paced back and forth and even knelt in the dirt, placing his left hand upon the ground and then touching the corner of the building with said hand, if the fresh smudges of dirt upon the white brick were any indication.

There were footprints leading into the yard, but then they vanished among the lawn and weeds. This had been the criminal's exit.

I muttered to myself about the inefficiency of the official force as I walked back to the street to examine Lestrade's tree. And I could see what he meant even from a distance. There were indeed fresh green leaves and stems upon the pavement. And as I reached the spot and examined the trunk of the tree with my lens, it was clear someone had recently ascended.

I promptly clambered up, looking for every indication of where the man had moved, and quickly found myself settled on a sturdy branch so that I could comfortably face the street with a full view of the alley. Well, a full view at present. The broken ends of twigs I could see before me indicated that the criminal had needed to remove them from his line of sight, likely so he could properly aim his weapon.

"Mr. Holmes, what on earth—?!" Gregson's voice floated up to me among the bright leaves. I held my hand as if I were going to aim a gun at Constable Durham, who still guarded the body, and then looked down to the street where the incredulous pair of inspectors stood. I spotted what I was looking for and rejoined them on the ground.

"Here you are gentlemen," I said, reaching down to the ground a few meters away and picking up a rather smashed revolver casing, "and I believe the gun used was an air gun. It accounts for the lack of any sound of a shot, and the considerable damage done to the body by such a small bullet."

The men stood in awe for a moment and I couldn't repress a slight grin at their stupefied expressions. But then Lestrade piped up in his typical tactless fashion.

"I _was_ right. Well, we can't win them all, can we Gregson? But do not look so downhearted old chap. I'm sure there was _some_ significance about the footprints by the building. Am I right, Mr. Holmes?" I bristled at the man's nerve.

"Indeed. The killer knew that Paulsen would be going down the alley at this time. So he prepared himself in this tree, executed his task, discreetly went across the street and relieved the man of his belongings, disposed of them to create the illusion of robbery, and then waited at the corner of the building for the body to be discovered. As soon as it was, he left through the yard."

Lestrade pondered this and Gregson actually asked an intelligent if not obvious question.

"But what of the motive?"

"It rather seems the killer was trying to draw someone here with his act. Paulsen was just the unfortunate lure."

"Inspectors!" came a distant cry, and the three of us looked to see Durham waving at us frantically. We crossed back over to see what had him so riled. "Just look what I've found in his papers!" the man cried somewhat breathlessly as we reached him, and he held out a few letters and cards. But the topmost envelope was of extreme interest, and rather disconcerting. For it was addressed to me.

I frowned as I took out the hand-scrawled note, and the three officials simply gaped as I rapidly scanned the contents.

_Holmes,_

_You have ruined my life, so I shall take yours._

_Stamp_

Realization hit me full force, and I scarcely had time to move as I looked down the alley and saw the face of the man himself, there at the corner of the left building leveling a revolver at me.

"Move!" I cried as I leapt to the side, pulling the inspectors with me as the soft sound of a bullet passing inches from my head reached me. Lestrade and Gregson looked to see what had caused my action and were even more startled to see the man glowering at us with venom in his eyes as he slowly advanced, the gun still leveled at us.

Gregson reached for his pistol, but Stamp halted his action with a sharp command.

"Don't move, any of you. Except you Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You come with me," he intoned maliciously.

I was rather more annoyed than frightened by the situation, because I knew had I been able to study the scene without the interference of the official forces, I likely would have seen the answer immediately. But just as when this case had reached its first climax, the incompetence of Scotland Yard had aided the criminals. The London police were incredibly pestiferous.

I followed Stamp back down the alley, and to the right this time, where he pushed a gate open and beckoned me enter before him. We were in the yard of the house of the deceased, and as I had deduced, it was filled with fattened turkeys.

Stamp locked the gate, and once again I was face to face with the man. Except this time he held the gun.

"Any last words Mr. Holmes?" he chuckled mirthlessly.

"You cannot possibly escape."

"You believe I expect to escape? I can't go anywhere, I can't do anything, thanks to you and your meddling. No, I have accepted my lot. And you will face the same," he said, cocking the tiny air gun.

Anxiety began to overwhelm me as the seconds passed. Where were Lestrade and Gregson? They were smart enough to recognize the urgency of the situation and to take action.

But as Stamp leveled the gun, I feared that this would truly be my end. And partially the fault of the officials. How amusing...

Then suddenly, the three policemen flew out of the back door of the house, guns drawn. The cavalry had arrived.

I instinctively fell to the ground and again heard a bullet pass by my head as Stamp endeavored to complete his desperate quest. I looked up to see his snarling face, and then finally the sound I had been sorely missing echoed against the walls of the surrounding buildings––that of a police revolver.

A bright red stain appeared on the white shirtfront of Jack Stamp, and then he fell and was no more.

A moment later I was helped to my feet by a very pale Inspector Lestrade, whose gun was still smoking.

"My thanks, Inspector," I said genuinely, and I would have shaken his hand had it not been trembling and tightly gripping the pistol.

"Are you all right, Mr. Holmes?" Gregson asked, far more collected than his colleague.

"Indeed. It was rather exhilarating," I breathed, as I studied Gregson's stiff face and Durham's dead sober one behind him.

"Exhilarating?!" Lestrade came out of his stupor, "it was damned terrifying!"

"Yes…" Gregson murmured darkly, "that was more of an adventure than I'm used to, and I am no chicken," he said, glancing at Lestrade's pale face. Lestrade swallowed and some of his sprightliness returned.

"Nor am I," he said with a hint of fire as he locked eyes with his counterpart.

"Well," I said, straightening my hat and brushing the dirt from my coat, "shall we call it case closed then?" The officials gaped.

"That's it?" Gregson asked.

"Well, surely you see the way it occurred. Stamp's target was me from the first. He watched Paulsen and learned his habits, waited until a policeman was present, and then murdered the man with the hopes that the unlucky officer to happen upon the scene would immediately come to consult me. It is all rather absurdly simple," I concluded, fishing my cigarette case from my pocket.

And that dear reader, was the conclusion to the Stamp case. And what a dreadful bore it was.

Indeed, life is monotonous and dull, made worth living only with the occasional call from Scotland Yard to sate my incurable desire to pursue the whimsical London criminal. Although given the officials' tendency toward the commonplace, my time may be better spent in continuing to record these cases, as my dear friend Watson advises.

* * *

_Author's notes: Okay…when I had the idea it seemed excellent. But then, I have trouble writing Holmes. And then I kept altering the plot. And eventually I gave up in frustration and simply wrote straight through and gave it not a second thought nor even a proofread (as usual); so if this makes no sense and if plot holes abound, do let me know and I'll make every effort to correct them after I've had a night's sleep._

_Oh, and I have used Constable Durham in three stories now. I simply wish to state that he is **my** original character, and please do not use him without permission. Thank you._


	9. Instructive Introspections

_A/N: Prompt # 9 – Why exactly did Sherlock Holmes ask the Doctor to accompany him on the Drebber murder, other than the 'If you've nothing better to do' we get from STUD?_

_Sorry, this one is __**extremely**__ short :-/_

* * *

Compelling Curiosity

Prompt 9 – Instructive Introspections

The word 'boredom' is difficult to define. Not that you cannot find a clear definition in a dictionary; but it is applied to so many situations that the meaning has become obscured over time.

It has been used to describe all things from laziness as a trait to general lethargy to indifference, none of which embody the true meaning.

The technical definition refers to someone who is wearied by repetition and tedium or unwelcome attentions. But when applied, I find that it is still too broad an explanation.

A more accurate term for the condition would be 'ennui,' which adds specificity by indicating lack of interest or satiety as the reason. This definition best fits my friend and me when we sink into such a state.

Our methods of escape vary as well, as we dabble in our preferred artificial stimulants, indulge in long hours at our respective clubs, and spend a good deal of time in arbitrary conversation.

I recall one such time when this lassitude had us both in such a dreadful hold that the antagonism between us was near to the breaking point.

This was early in our acquaintance, when our young tempers drove us to vie for dominance in every situation. I truly believe that had the ennui of that fateful spring continued, we would not be sharing rooms today.

Thank God for the murder of Enoch Drebber. It was when that case was brought to our door, that we both found our method of escape.

One would think that we should have desired separation after so many days of tension, but in those few short weeks of sharing lodgings, we had discovered something. Whether we were aware of it then is another matter, but we had discovered in each other kindred spirits. We were two bohemian souls, trying to carve out a unique place in the potpourri of life.

So when the call came and that case was laid before us, the choice we had to make was pivotal. That moment would define the future, for we had already instinctively realized that it was together or not at all that we must go.

And go we did. Thus, our fates were decided, and together we have been ever since that moment.

One thing that typically is attributed to boredom is indifference. For some people, it may be the reality. But in the case of us two, nothing could be further from the truth. Because when the tedium takes over, my friend is there by my side, and I by his. When one has a friend, apathy can find no place in their heart.

So we drift through the kaleidoscope in concert, forever searching for the path from the weary darkness to the refreshing light, bound together for eternity. And we would not have it any other way.

* * *

_Author's notes: I'm sorry this is short, but my inspiration for this one vanished among my dreams last night. So I tried another path, but I'm afraid writer's block is returning; I can usually expound on these ambiguous subjects for pages, but I could find little to do with this one. In any case, I am happy with the result, short though it may be._

_Speaking of ambiguity, who do __**you**__ think is speaking? ;-)_

_This is dedicated to my friend Amanda. Welcome home!_


	10. Commiserable Cogitation

_A/N: From the fifth chapter of STUD, we never do find out who the man is that impersonated an old woman to get the ring back._

_Prompt 10 – Who was that man, and did Holmes ever encounter him again?_

* * *

Compelling Curiosity

Prompt 10 – Commiserable Cogitation

"_The public have lost a sensational treat through the sudden death of the man Hope, who was suspected of the murder of Mr. Enoch Drebber…"_

No. It couldn't be! Not Jeff! Not my best friend…

I had been with him from the beginning. Before he ever met that girl that would consume his existence.

I was with him when they met, when her horse was caught up with that steer. I saw the looks that went between them and knew that I would have to share my friend from then on.

I have tried to block out the memories, but reading of his death…now they're all coming back.

I remember the way he paced anxiously around the campsite, that night he decided to ask for her hand in marriage. I laughed and told him if he didn't, she'd be asking him, they were that much in love.

When we all went prospecting, all he could do was talk of her, and all his plans of moving to California and having a family. That man could talk the ears off a snake, if they had any.

He also worried about her day and night, whether or not she and her father were safe and all sorts of "what if's" that had me so perturbed I'd have popped him one on the jaw had he not been so pitiful. Young love is such an extraordinary thing.

But the joy was short lived. I was with him when the messenger brought the note warning of the Prophet's plans. His face had gone so pale, I thought he would surely faint. But he steeled himself and prepared to go back.

I pleaded with him, told him it wasn't worth it. He could not fight all the powers of the Avenging Angels alone.

Then he asked me to go with him.

I was a coward in those days. I saw that radical group for what they were—a militant cult, bent on destroying anyone who opposed their will. And I knew that if I tangled with them, my life would be forfeit.

And then he looked at me sorrowfully, and left. I regret my decision to this day…

I didn't see him again for over a year. And when I found him ruminating in the mountains, barely alive, he welcomed me as a friend. I didn't deserve his friendship, but he needed mine.

Jeff was a broken man, by every definition of the word. When I first saw him, he looked a decade older. And it was all I could do to stand close and talk to him without coughing at the filth and squalid conditions in which he was living.

It did not take long to get the whole story out of him, and what a sad tale it was. He told me of the desperate escape he made with Lucy and her father. The hasty journey, his five hour mistake, and what he found upon his return.

His shock upon finding John Ferrier's grave was enough to arouse his anger, and he told me of how desperately he followed them, searching for his love. But when he found her…

He showed the ring to me, and at that point I cried. What had I done? Why had I let him go alone? They could have been alive and happy now, if only I had done something. What kind of friend was I?

Determined not to make the same error, I stayed with him. For five long years I stayed with him. So we worked in the mines, and our lives resumed in the way they had been those years ago before we ever met Lucy Ferrier.

But Jeff was dead inside. I could see it. His eyes held nothing of the life they once had. And it wasn't long before they burned with the fire of hate.

One day I awoke to find him gone. He left no word, but had taken all of his money and his rifle. I knew what his quest was, and I was sorry.

I had tried, but for all I had within me to give, it couldn't replace the hole in his life the loss of his Lucy had left him with.

And for a long time, I heard nothing. I expected my friend was gone forever, until one day I received a telegram from Copenhagen. He was on his way to London, still after Drebber and Stangerson, and he wanted me to come to him.

At that moment, I wanted more than anything to see those men punished for what they done to my friend. There had been no better man than Jefferson Hope, and their selfish evil had destroyed him.

So I went, and when I got there and found my friend he was a changed man. He had something of his sanity back, but he was weak and exhausted in his spirit. And I knew why, when he told me he had killed Drebber.

I don't know why I was surprised. I expected nothing less. But that it had actually happened was a great shock to me. And apparently to him as well, for he talked at me for hours, arguing with himself over the morality of his choice.

At the end of that day, he had both of us convinced. His action was justified.

And whether it was or not, I was his best friend. I would stand by him in everything, even if it took me to Hell.

So when he showed me that advertisement in the paper, and told me what he wanted me to do, I did not hesitate.

I performed my task, fooled the gentlemen, and managed to elude them when they pursued me. I imagined they were policemen after that, but didn't think much of it.

Then, when Jeff told me he had killed Stangerson, I went around to the crime scene. Jeff was in too deep now, and his mind was going. I was afraid he may have left evidence to incriminate himself.

I was very surprised when I saw a police inspector coming out of the building in a rush, hailing a cab, and giving the very address to the driver which I had recently visited.

"…_the man was apprehended, it appears, in the rooms of a certain Mr. Sherlock Holmes…"_

I had been re-reading those words over and over as I walked to the address. It was clear to me who had been my friend's ruin and even death. I knew my friend had been in poor health just from looking at him, but he had many more years on the earth I am sure.

Now I stand across the street from 221B Baker Street. That Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes were responsible, not the police, I was certain. And I could avenge my friend.

I don't know what I will do or what I will say, but I have a gun in my pocket and my resolve is firm.

But, wait… Here they come, out the front door. I can shoot them here and now. It will probably mean my death, but what have I to live for?

I draw my gun…but pause. In his eyes…

They are laughing, the doctor and his friend. And I see in them, the youthful friendship Jeff and I enjoyed all those years ago, when the world was comprised of the Rocky Mountains and the bright blue sky.

They're the same, just like Jeff and I were. I…I can't kill them. I can't take that away. Having had the joy of friendship, I know there is no greater feeling on the earth.

And despite my grief…I can't do it. I'm not Jeff.

And maybe…maybe it's better this way. I know that now Jeff is at peace, and in Heaven his heart will have calmed now he is with Lucy. He wouldn't want me to kill them.

So I release my gun and it drops back into the depths of my coat pocket. And the two friends walk down the street, grinning at each other and laughing.

Someday…Jeff and I will share that laughter again.

* * *

_Author's notes: Well, how is it? I actually re-read that boring second half of STUD to write this. And then I wrote straight through, not even checking for typos. If ever anything needed proofreading, this is the chapter._


	11. Anomalistic Associations

_A/N: Chapter 6 of STUD is memorable for the debut of the Baker Street Irregulars._

_Prompt 11 – Use your imagination. When did Holmes first encounter these urchins, how did they meet, how did they begin to work for him, etc._

* * *

Compelling Curiosity

Prompt 11 – Anomalistic Associations

I ran as fast as I could, the sleet hitting my face as if dozens of miniature daggers were being thrown with unusual precision. My cheeks soon became tender from the abuse, but I couldn't stop. My life was in the balance.

I was being pursued by one of the worst criminals I had ever encountered, and he was hell bent on stopping me from telling the police what I knew, one way or another. And knowing what I did of him, he would choose the most painful way of stopping me he could manage.

There would be safety in a crowd, I knew. But unfortunately there were few people to be found at all in a thunderstorm on a winter's evening, down by the London Docks.

I looked back to see if the man was still pursuing me, acquiring a momentary relief from the rain pounding upon my face. And blinking the water from my heavy eyelids, I saw him coming toward me out of the steel fog, a look of hatred in his eyes.

I wondered at that, if malice was the true motive for all of his crimes. As of yet, I had not seen an alternative reason. But this man had committed the worst crimes a man can commit against women, and against his wife and daughter. That was enough to convince me that if ever there was a soul comprised of pure evil, it lived in this man.

I finally had my evidence against him, thanks to some reconnaissance, and could prepare my case for presentation to the police on the morrow. That is, if I lived until tomorrow.

He was gaining on me, and I was not familiar with the area. A road may be a permanent fixture, but it looks entirely different upon the return than from the original venture.

And my total disorientation proved that point, as I rounded an unfamiliar corner and found myself staring up a dark, narrow alley that from its appearance was used as a junkyard for Greater London, obscured even more by the fog and driving rain. But I hadn't time to think about that, and continued running. Though now I had the added distraction of leaping over the odd bucket or rusty bicycle.

Logically, I should have already been caught, and was amazed at my luck as I wove my way up the constricting corridor. But it was not to last.

I tripped over something, and to this day I do not know what. For at that moment, I was concentrated on the dreadful face that was suddenly looming over me.

The man hauled me to my feet and I was assaulted with the stench of bad alcohol and sweat as he pulled me close to his red, grizzled face. And then I was on the ground again, dropped by a strong punch to my stomach.

He lunged for me again, but I rolled out of the way and righted myself, catching my trousers on a jagged piece of scrap metal in the process. But I ignored the sudden pain as the metal gouged into my calf and I dodged his swift attack.

I answered with one of my own and hit him squarely in the celiac plexus, but it seemed to do the man no harm as he simply snarled and made another grab for me. I backed up, but again found myself stumbling over some rubbish.

As he once again reached me, and this time gave me a hard knock on the jaw, I began to wonder if this was a fight I was going to lose. I fought back as best I could, using every trick I knew, and I got the better of him with a few of them. But in the end the man was nothing but a solid, coiled muscle, and the odds were definitely against me.

After a few moments of my stumbling, truly giving it my best in the circumstance, a hard crack to my temple sent me to the ground permanently. A great darkness was swimming before my eyes, and I found that I could not lift my head to even see when the man's next attack would come.

When he hauled me up by my lapels and drove his fist into my stomach a few more times, it was all I could do to grunt in reaction, as my vision left me completely.

He dropped me then, back on the cold wet ground and gave me a kick under the ribs as a finishing touch I imagined. And just before consciousness followed the path my faculty of sight had, I heard him speak.

"That'll teach you to mess in other people's affairs Mr. Holmes. And if I ever catch you spying on me again I'll do worse to you than I did to my girls!"

And then I blacked out.

* * *

I was awoken by a painful shaking and a piercing voice, inches away from my face.

"Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes! Aw God, please wake up Mr. Holmes!" the voice pleaded, near frantic. I suddenly remembered all that had happened the night before (assuming of course, that it was now the next day), and keeping my eyes closed for the moment as something of a favor to my pounding head, I used my other senses to take stock of my surroundings.

Garbage was the first scent that hit me, and I remembered that I'd been dropped in that alley. I also smelled dirt, corrupted by the atmosphere, and tepid water. I could also hear water flowing as down a drain pipe, and surely I could feel water, down in the toes of my boots.

Finally I became aware of a thin grey light hitting my face, and I forced my eyes open and then promptly closed them. For the light, dull as I realized it must be through the remnants of the storm clouds, was still enough to exponentially increase the throbbing in my skull.

"Come on now Mr. Holmes, that's it. Open your eyes," the shrill voice commanded, still shaking me. I was suddenly aware of just how painful that shaking was. With a supreme effort, I lifted my arm forcefully and struck the person off with a back handed hit to the face that they had seen fit to put inches from mine.

"Here now!" the voice complained, and it occurred to me that the voice was slightly familiar.

Even with the brief contact, I could tell the face was a soft one, and I began to connect the threads in my mind between that, the location, and the small voice.

I opened my mouth to speak, but only a dry cough came out, and I painfully rolled onto my side, which only made my headache worse. And then I was being shaken again.

"Stop!" I managed to choke out, and my command was instantly obeyed. I rolled over again and up on my hands and knees, the pain with every action sharp and gripping.

"There, you all right now Mr. Holmes?" the voice said, a little less frantic.

"No," I choked, and blinked my eyes several times against the light. Approximately a minute later, I was able to keep them open, and I leaned back and sat on my heels, looking around me.

It was the same alley, though now it was alive with activity, with beggars and drunks and soiled doves attempting to make their livelihood. It occurred to me to check my pockets and sure enough, my wallet was gone.

I rested my heavy eyes on the young lad before me, who stared worriedly back.

"Master Wiggins, do you happen to know what has become of my wallet?" I glared, and he shrunk back with a look of indignance.

"I didn't touch your wallet, I swear it!" he answered defiantly. I was not prepared to argue the point with him at the moment, because I could barely string together any coherent thoughts let alone speak them with the pounding in my head.

I rose shakily to my feet and managed a few steps forward before dizziness overwhelmed me. If not for the lad's sharp thinking I'd have been on the ground again. But he stepped forward and let me lean on his slight frame.

He was about fourteen years of age, but tall for them, so I was able to rest my arm heavily on his shoulders and not compromise my posture too greatly to do so.

"What happened to you?! It was that Fleming fellow wasn't it? I knew he was trouble. You look like you've been to hell and back!" That did not sound promising as to my appearance.

"Nearly. Help me find a cab please Wiggins," I said hoarsely, my throat dry and sore from the cold night.

"Oh you planning on going back home then?" he asked as we slowly began walking up the alley, though I was doing more stumbling than walking.

"Of course," I muttered. Children have an annoying capacity for always stating the obvious.

"You sure you can make it all right? You look right bad sir," he said with genuine concern.

"I shall be fine."

"You sure? My house is right around the corner sir, if you want to rest up a bit."

"I told you, I'm—" At that moment, I tripped over my own feet and fell clumsily, taking the boy with me. I heard him cry out and saw that his face had hit the ground. I pulled him up in alarm, ignoring the pains in my own body for the moment.

He had a mild scrape on his cheek and a worse one on his nose that was beginning to seep bright red blood.

"I'm so sorry," I said. He looked as if he were about to cry, but bit his lip firmly.

"It's all right. I've been through worse."

He rose quickly and then slowly pulled me up, and we started on our trek once again. He asked me again to stop at his house, claiming I was in far too bad of condition to go home. I was rather frustrated with the child, but I had few alternatives to what he offered. I was injured, my wallet was gone, and the dizziness was not leaving me, but only becoming worse with every step.

So I did not scold him when I looked up to find myself in front of a dingy little shack that looked scarcely more habitable than the alley I had spent the night in.

"This is my house Mr. Holmes," he said apprehensively. But I simply nodded, too weak to care any longer, and he led me to the door.

Walking in the door, a feeling of great warmth over took me and I looked to see a black stove with waves of heat emanating from it. Also in the room were a rickety wooden table and two chairs to match, and a bed that looked about big enough for two in one corner.

There was a window next to the doorway I was standing in with some ratty curtains, and a credenza in the corner that held a pitcher of water and a small basin, some dishes, and several jars of preserves. On the stove was a copper kettle, and at that moment it began to steam violently.

The boy left my side suddenly and I had to lean against the door frame to keep from toppling over again. He grabbed a cloth from the table and took the kettle off the stove and put it on the credenza. I was slowly coming to the realization that this one room shack was his home, when I heard another loud piercing voice, this one female and directly behind me.

"Hey you, what are you doing in my house!" a familiar timbre sounded, and I assumed that if I turned I would be looking at the boy's mother. But turning around was such a supreme effort, that before I was halfway done the woman had pushed me indoors and I fell next to the hot stove.

"This is Mr. Holmes, Mum! Remember the gentleman I told you about?" the lad said, running up to his mother, who was brandishing a washboard.

"What did you say lad? He's certainly been through it, hasn't he?" she said, looking first to her son and then to me. I looked her over carefully from my undignified position on the floor, still wary of an attack.

She was a rather robust woman, and looked to be several years older than me. I deduced from her dress she was a laundress, and the washboard along with the open hamper of damp laundry she carried confirmed her occupation. She had amber-colored, tightly curled hair and deep brown eyes, which at this moment were looking at me with a mixture of skepticism and awe.

"Yes Mum, I think he's been beaten up. Found him in the alley, I did, and he could barely walk here. He wanted to go home but I said no."

I did not care to be spoken about in the third person while present. I tried to say as much but only succeeded in coughing, my raw throat hurting all the more for the treatment. This seemed to make up the woman's mind, for she set down her washing and came to help me up.

"Lord have mercy, you _have_ been through it! Just look at those bruises! Drinking and brawling no doubt," she shook her head as she roughly picked me up and placed me in one of the chairs.

"Not Mr. Holmes, Mum!" the boy defended my honor, "He would never do a thing like that. He's a detective, and he probably just got himself into a sticky situation with an unscrupulous character is all. Ain't that right, Mr. Holmes?" the boy beamed at me. I managed a nod, and the woman met my eyes for the first time.

"You a detective?" she asked. I nodded again. "Well, right young to be about that business aren't you. Let me fix you some coffee to take the chill out of your bones."

"Oh, no thank you madam. I couldn't impose upon you." And really I couldn't, for I had yet to see a speck of food in the house beyond the small jars on the credenza.

"Nonsense, I insist. Crazy young fool, out snooping and spying on people," she muttered to herself as she prepared the coffee, "You'll get yourself killed eventually," she said, looking at me with her hands on her hips, as if I was her wayward son.

Said child laughed at my expression of surprise, and the lady placed a cup of steaming coffee in front of me.

"What's for lunch Mum?" the boy asked, as if all of this was a normal proceeding for a Wednesday afternoon.

"Wait until your father gets home. He said he'd bring something. You'll stay of course, Mr. Holmes," she stated rather than asked.

"I really cannot," I said, rising from my chair, "Thank you for your hospitality Misses Wiggins."

"But you're in no condition to go anywhere," she protested, "Look at you! You can hardly stand let alone get back to your home."

"And your wallet's gone missing, remember?" her son piped up helpfully.

I would have just left as I was rather uncomfortable with the situation, but at that moment the door swung open and a huge hulk of a man took up the doorway and fixed me with a look so direct that I fell back into the chair, disturbing the coffee.

"'Hello, who's this?" he boomed, and for a moment I thought I was in for another beating. But I held his piercing gaze and as he studied me the fury left his eyes and was replaced with concern.

"I am Sherlock Holmes," I tried to introduce myself properly, but my ribs wouldn't allow more than a whisper of my voice to come out.

"Who?" the man was confused, and looked to his wife. She was suddenly less talkative in her husband's presence, but answered his question all the same.

"Poor man was beaten up last night in the alley," his wife answered quietly, "He's a detective and got himself into a bit of a mess with following somebody, I gather." The big man raised a skeptical eyebrow at this until his son spoke up.

"He's _my_ friend Dad," the boy answered confidently and went to greet the man with a hug.

Seeing them side by side, I saw how nearly identical the boy was to his father. They had the same sable-colored hair and piercing blue eyes, and despite the boy's size I could see he had the same muscular build. He would be a copy of his father in a few years time.

"Oh? And where did you meet this friend?" the man asked, handing a package to his wife which I assumed was some form of meat. His son leaned on the table and gestured to his father to sit, and then he looked between the two of us as I tried to give the impression by my manner that I was more than a street brawler.

"I was up in Hyde Park one day," the boy started professionally, "and Mr. Holmes here grabs me and pulls me behind a hedge. I said to him, 'Hey what you on about?!'

"He says, 'Do you want to make a sovereign lad?'

"And I said, 'Sure!'

"'You see that man over there,' and he leaned out from behind the shrub just a little ways and pointed at this biggish fellow with a nasty scar on his right cheek, 'I want you to follow him. Can you do that?'

"'Of course I can,' I answered.

"'And can you take notes about the people he speaks with, the places he goes and whatnot?'

"'No problem, Gov!'

"'Excellent! Here is where you can find me for payment,' he said, writing his address on a paper he took from his pocket, 'The man's name is Roger Fleming and he lives just on the other side of the river, near Southwark.'

"'So I just follow him and then tell you everything he does?'

"'Right. Report back to me on the twenty-fourth.'

"'Uh…when is that sir?' I asked.

"'In three days,' he said, rolling his eyes a bit. 'And what is your name lad?'

"'Wiggins, sir,' I told him proudly, 'Joshua Wiggins.' And so I did, and I got my sovereign," he finished by pulling the very coin out of his pocket with dramatic flair.

"Blimey…" his mother said, and I turned to see her frozen in place, a bloodied knife in her hand and some red meat on the surface of the credenza. I wasn't sure what had shocked her so until I saw the look of fear she possessed as she looked at her son.

The full realization that I had erred hit me when the boy's father rose and came to stand next to me, his presence suddenly making me feel as if I was the most insignificant thing in that tiny room.

"Where do you come off telling my son to follow people?!" he yelled, "Don't you realize that what happened to you could have happened to him?!"

I was at a loss, for the thought had not occurred to me and I felt inestimably stupid for it. What kind of man sends children after criminals?

"I offer my most humble apologies Mr. Wiggins. I was not thinking clearly at the time," I offered meekly.

"You most certainly weren't!" he screamed, so loudly I was sure it would bring down the walls of the tired little building, "Now get out of my house and stay away from my son," he said, grabbing my collar and pulling me up sharply.

I let out a cry of pain at the sudden movement and the boy reached out and tugged at his father's arm.

"Please dad, you'll hurt him!" he begged, as the man began shoving me toward the door.

"I never want to see your face again, do you understand me?" he shouted into my ear, and I nodded quickly as he pushed me outside and slammed the door. I was on the ground again, my vision spotty and my head throbbing all over again. The coffee hadn't helped.

From inside, I could hear the raised voices of the elder and younger men of the household arguing about the conduct of the younger. I now realized my folly in asking the boy to tail Fleming, but I could not do it myself. He was already on to me and I had avoided a tangle with him by jumping into a cab.

I would have asked Wiggins to go last night as well, but fool that I am, I hadn't gotten his address after he had left me the other night. So this was the first contact I had had with him since, and it was likely to be the last.

I picked myself up and stole away from the house and its noises of strife. I was sorry to have been the cause of it, for such a family in their condition. I imagined that sovereign I had given the boy would be of great assistance to them, despite the foolish manner in which it was earned.

Now that I had a moment of peace, I was able to take greater notice of my circumstances.

I observed that while I still had all of my clothes, which were damp down to my socks, and my left trouser was torn and there was a rather messy gash in my calf, about eight centimeters in length. The knuckles of my right hand were scraped, and my right arm was considerably sorer than my left. My upper back and neck were aching, and I still had that throbbing headache with occasional waves of dizziness.

The concussion was making it difficult for me to walk and think at the same time, as was a pain in my abdomen that kept me hunched over to a degree. I imagined I did look like a drunk on his way home the morning after a losing battle with his inebriated fellows.

I hobbled around a corner and onto what was a slightly more respectable street. A few streets further and I would look out of place, as I currently appeared as though I belonged back in the neighborhood of the Wiggins family. I was hoping I could find a cab that would take me back to Montague Street without mentioning the fact that I had no money on my person.

One was stopping at the curb about ten meters in front of me, so I hastened my approach, hoping someone else did not engage the vehicle before I got there. But I suddenly stopped as I saw who was getting out of the cab. It was the last man on earth I wanted to see, and as he disembarked he turned to walk in my direction.

In a situation such as this, when the odds are definitely against a man, one would think Providence would grant him some small amount of grace. It was not to be so with me, for at that moment I felt a familiar tugging on my coat from behind.

"Mr. Holmes," I heard the voice of Joshua Wiggins, trembling and quiet, "My dad said to give you back your sovereign," he said, holding the coin out. I could see traces of tears on his face.

But now was not the time for emotions. I turned back to see that Fleming had noticed me, and was coming toward me with terrifying swiftness. I glanced around for a place to hide, but there was none. I feared that after the beating that was sure to come, I would not be traveling home in a cab, if I were traveling home at all.

Just then the boy caught sight of my adversary, let out a gasp, and rushed back around the corner the way we had come. I was glad he had the sense to stay away. Any connection he had to me would only be his downfall.

I readied myself to fight as best I could as Fleming came toward me, his eyes blazing.

"I told you to keep out of my affairs!" he shouted, "You're dead now!" he said, rolling up his sleeve to reveal a red, muscled forearm. I didn't bother to offer a retort. I needed to stay focused.

From my experience of the night before, I knew it was unlikely I could beat the man. So I chose a more defensive tactic.

I ducked under his first swing and moved around him, kicking him in the side of the knee. He yelped and recoiled against the pain, and I hoped I finally had something of a chance.

He turned toward me with rage and made a grab at me. I backed away quickly, keeping my guard up. Other people on the street were beginning to stop and stare at the spectacle, murmuring to themselves, no doubt placing odds on the fight.

My slight digression of glancing around had cost me though. The man grabbed me by the shoulder and laid into my face repeatedly, causing me extreme pain to say the least.

When he let go, I fell and decided it may be in my best interests to stay on the ground. The black spots dancing in front of my eyes were good persuasion to that end, so I moved just enough to be able to see him from where I lay.

He reached for me again, and I raised my leg and kicked him solidly in the stomach. He staggered back with a look of pain and I smirked. Maybe the fight was fairer this way.

"I'm going to kill you!" he spat, and made to grab me. But I raised my foot menacingly and he hesitated. And then something incredible happened.

From around the corner, came young Wiggins, pulling his father behind him. The boy pointed and started to cry out, but the elder Mr. Wiggins clapped a hand over his mouth before he could make a sound. I saw a fire come into his eyes as he looked at the scene and then he pushed his son firmly but gently against the wall and started toward us.

Fleming looked around to see what had drawn my attention, and I couldn't see the look on his face when he saw Wiggins coming toward him. But the latter's blue eyes had gone dark with rage, and it occurred to me that there may be more going on than I was aware of.

"You bludger!" Wiggins yelled at my opponent, "You have some nerve showing your face around here after what you did to my sister and her daughter. I'll kill you this time!" he screamed, and then let out a string of swear words that I was surprised he would use in the presence of his son.

Fleming shrank back under the verbal abuse, and I found it interesting to see him afraid. Granted Wiggins was even bigger than he, but they were a much better match for each other than I was to either of them.

As this was bound to be interesting, I scooted back against the wall and edged my way over to where the boy was standing, horrified.

"Did you know he was your uncle when I asked you to follow him?" I asked the young boy as the fight between the two large men begun. He shook his head 'no' in response, his eyes fixed on the scene.

I stayed seated, leaning against the building as I watched, thinking my still throbbing head would be better for it. I was now realizing that the boy had been right in his initial supposition that I would need professional care for my injuries.

Fleming and Wiggins were busy at their violent task, the bigger man definitely having the winning odds. And a mere minute later, my nemesis was on the ground very much in the manner I had been the night before.

"That'll teach you!" Wiggins said with finality, straightening his collar. He then turned toward me with a look of penitence. "I'm…sorry I threw you out Mr. Holmes. It was just hearing that name…I thought it might be my brother-in-law. You chose the wrong profession if your work has you tangling with the likes of him."

"I have not had to deal with many of his kind," I said apprehensively, not entirely sure of my position with the man. He reached down to give me a hand up and I accepted gratefully, too weak and in too much pain to care any longer about anything else.

There were a few moments of uncomfortable silence between us as I stood leaning against the wall and he rubbed his jaw, where I could see a slight bruise forming.

"Thank you for your assistance," I said finally.

Wiggins snorted, "He deserved it, the filthy bastard. What will you do with him now? Turn him over to the police?"

"Yes. If you can find a constable we'll send him off now. Is the Metropolitan the closest station?"

"Yes, unless you want to go to Greenwich," he smiled for the first time, and I returned it. After spending so many days in the dark world of Roger Fleming, it was refreshing to experience the better part of society.

"Mr. Holmes," the boy said, tugging at my arm, "Here's your sovereign back."

"Please keep it," I said, looking from him to his father, "And I cannot apologize enough for my behavior. If I can do anything to recompense you for it, you have only to ask." The man hesitated a moment before answering.

"Well, my reaction was a bit harsh, I admit," he said sheepishly.

"It won't happen again, I assure you," I said quickly, ignoring the hand gripping my arm.

"Aw, but it was so much fun!" the boy interrupted, "And I was careful, Dad. He never saw me, not once!"

"It was terribly poor judgment on my part," I remonstrated.

"And it is dangerous, whether you think so or not," his father added sensibly.

"But I could bring some of the lads with me. They would all love to make a few shillings here and there, and it's the easiest work," he reasoned. His father was shaking his head, but truthfully what the boy said was accurate. The very reason I had selected him to take up my task for me was because I knew he would never be suspected.

I was surprised to then hear the boy using that very argument with his father, who was listening thoughtfully to the excitement in his son's voice.

"And think of the money we would make!" the boy concluded, shoving the sovereign in front of his father's face. True enough, they could use all the money they could get. I kept my mouth shut, but I truly was hoping that Mr. Wiggins would relent. The boy had been extremely helpful to me, despite the risk. And I hadn't asked him to do anything very hazardous, and I never would.

"Well…" Wiggins said, leaning his head back and looking up at the sky. I wondered if he was praying and if so, what for. "Don't tell your mother," he said with a smile.

"Hurrah!" the lad exclaimed, jumping on me and dropping the sovereign. I bit back an exclamation of pain as I tried to remove the boy from my person, and his dad picked up the coin with a gleam in his eyes. Yes, money was the most persuasive of arguments.

"Let him go Joshua, he has work to do."

"Thanks Dad!" he said, turning his affections to his father, for which my ribs were extremely grateful.

"Well…" I said shakily, "Fleming won't lie there forever. I should be finding a policeman."

"Oh, I'll take care of that Mr. Holmes. You get yourself on up to Saint Bartholomew's. You look like you could use some care and rest." I agreed with him and soon found myself in a cab driving along the river toward my destination.

I did not much care for hospitals, but I was smart enough to know when to go to one. And this was such a time. My injuries were still paining me and my head had not stopped spinning, and now I felt so incredibly weary that I was sure I would pass out again.

As consciousness threatened to leave me once again, I reflected on the singular family I had just encountered. They had all the complexities of any London family, but more character than even the highest class of person I had met in a very long time. It was an interesting if not painful experience.

And the boy and his friends (if he made good on his offer to bring them) would indeed be a benefit to my work. I could not keep getting into situations like the one of the night before, or they would begin to know me by name at the hospital.

"Yes, young Wiggins will be a great asset to me," I thought to myself, just before I lost consciousness.

* * *

_Author's notes: Well, I certainly made up for the brevity of the last two chapters with this one ;-) I apologize for the slow update, but I have been extraordinarily busy. But I think this was worth the wait. Let me know, hm? Hope you all enjoyed!_


	12. Elucidative Espial

_A/N: From Chapter 7, you remember Holmes saying "Now would you mind going down and fetching that poor little devil of a terrier which has been bad so long, and which the lady wanted you to put out of its pain..."?_

_Prompt # 12 – Why didn't Watson put it out of its misery when Mrs. Hudson asked him to? Soft-heartedness, or something else?_

* * *

Compelling Curiosity

Prompt 12 – Elucidative Espial

I sighed wearily as I fitted my key to the latch. Something about pursuing crime professionally was very draining to the mind and spirit. I swung open the large door and gratefully stepped inside the cool foyer of 221B Baker Street.

As I hung my coat and hat, I heard a yipping sound from the parlor. The doctor's young dog must have found its way inside again. I paused at the entry and gazed in, to see the small creature dancing excitedly around the landlady's dog, which simply lay on the floor.

I started into the room, thinking of putting the small dog out. And then I caught sight of the old terrier's eyes. I do not claim any understanding where emotion is concerned, and certainly not the animal kind. But it did not take a detective to deduce that the old dog was suffering.

I caught up the little young terrier by the scruff of the neck and carried it out to the back door. The creature must have interpreted my action as the instigation of a game of sorts, because it began to playfully growl at me and tried to gnaw at my wrist.

I deposited it in the yard with no delay and took a towel from the kitchen to dry the dog's saliva from my hand. And then instead of going upstairs, I went back to the parlor to have another look at the old pet.

It still had not moved, and turned its eyes toward me pitifully as I stared at it. It seemed almost to pleading to be given release from its pain. I admit, I felt a twinge of sympathy for the little beast.

The landlady had already asked the doctor to put it out of its misery on more than one occasion, of which I was aware. But as of yet he had only promised to do so and obviously not followed through on his word.

I found that slightly interesting, but after the affairs of last week, the man certainly deserved a rest from any sort of work. True I should not have been out either, but it would be irresponsible to discard my work for personal reasons.

The small dog rose and loped toward me slowly, laying down again and putting its head over one of my boots. It was truly suffering, and I did not want to see the pain prolonged. I could easily euthanize the creature, with just a bit of chloroform from the doctor's medical supplies.

I went up the stairs past the sitting room and continued to that of the doctor. I tapped lightly on the door to see if he was in, and then entered. The quietness of the room seemed to sit tensely with me, so I looked around.

I almost let out a gasp when I saw the doctor still abed, but I managed to bite back my surprise. The man had every right to still be in bed after what he had recently experienced, but this did make my task a bit more difficult.

I contemplated simply leaving, but as I was already there, I may as well finish the job. I stepped delicately to the dresser, where his bag sat on the floor. Opening it cautiously, I slowly took out objects so as not to disturb his slumber by rifling through it noisily.

I took out a stethoscope, a nearly spent roll of bandaging, scissors, a scalpel, three syringes of different size, a near empty bottle of morphine…and that was it. Save for a slip of paper which I then read, much to my chagrin. But the doctor was one of the most singular men I had met, and my curiosity about him was overflowing.

The paper was a receipt from a hospital down in Woking, and it was for the standard drugs and chemicals a doctor in practice might carry. But he seemed to have none of those things with him.

The receipt was from almost a month ago. Could he have already used those supplies? I know he gave me some morphine last week, but to my knowledge that was all he had used of his drugs. Of course, I did not know everything the man did. But very little escapes my notice.

No, if he used his things, it was before he and I became acquainted. Or he could have them elsewhere in the room. They were not visible, so they could be in his dresser…

But I wouldn't look. That kind of breach of confidence is even beyond me, except in criminal investigations of course. I replaced the contents of his bag with finality and slowly stood.

As I did, I observed his open wallet on the dresser, as well as an open envelope. The wallet I could see was near empty, and a glance told me the envelope contained his latest pension cheque. I was tempted to look at it, but I had gone far enough already.

I stole quietly from the room with some new questions and answers about my fellow lodger. And with the answer to why he had not yet euthanized the landlady's dog. My sympathies were no longer just with the poor animal, but with the doctor as well.

* * *

_Author's notes: Well, another short one. But I think it stands well enough. Let me know if it sounds like Holmes. I've been trying very hard to get his voice down, but the jumps in time have been giving me a bit of trouble._

_And again, I'm dropping hints about another story. Are you intrigued??_

_Hope y'all enjoyed! :-)_


	13. Pragmatic Persuasion

_A/N: From Chapter 1 of SIGN, I quote: "My practice has extended recently to the Continent," said Holmes after a while, filling up his old brier-root pipe. "I was consulted last week by Francois le Villard, who, as you probably know, has come rather to the front lately in the French detective service."_

_Prompt #13 – Have Holmes and Le Villard meet, either for the first time or at a different time; I've always wanted to see Holmes meet something of a rival other than the usual Dupin and so on._

* * *

Compelling Curiosity

Prompt 13 – Pragmatic Persuasions

"Hurry up man!" he shouted to me in my native tongue, and I tried to keep up with him in the dark. The soft glow of the street lamps was not sufficient to light our way. Especially when our way was uncertain, as we were pursuing a criminal whose movements were less than predictable.

We had tracked him from Le Mans to Rennes to Plérin, and finally it seemed we had caught up with him. Half a year's work had not been wasted. But now at the last moment, it seemed he would escape us.

I had told Mr. Holmes we needed to bring reinforcements, but he has such a disdain for regulation that I could not persuade him. And now we were in dire need of them.

"Rue Mozart! He's heading for the Stade!" he yelled back as I struggled to keep up. My idea of detection was investigating a crime scene, not chasing after dangerous criminals in the dark. This was a job for the Stagiaires, not for a Gardien seven years on the force.

Suddenly I crashed into something in the dark. It was Mr. Holmes, and we both pitched forward.

"Mr. Holmes, what—?"

"Hush!" he whispered sharply, and pointed down an alley. "This is it!" he said with nothing less than excitement in his voice. The man loved the dangerous work, but it was not for me. Not for my nerves.

He started down the alley and I was obliged to follow him, though to what end I dreaded to imagine. Moments later he stopped in front of a door and pointed to it.

"What do you make of that?" he asked, and I looked at it desperately in the dark. It appeared tightly sealed and there was undisturbed dust in front of it. One would think it was an ordinary unused servant's entrance to an apartment. But the doorknob was not dusty.

I pointed this out, and he looked at me as if asking me to continue. So I did, saying our man must have entered through this door but jumped the threshold to make it appear as if he had not. Furthermore, the man must be familiar with the building and be acquainted with the owners if he was able to unlock the door and make his disappearance so quickly and neatly.

Mr. Holmes clapped his hands at my statement, and I jumped in surprise. Then more startlingly, he went back up the alley to the front of the building.

"What are we doing Mr. Holmes?" I asked desperately, for this was confusing enough without his irregular behavior. Of course, for him it was most regular.

"He will expect us to enter through the same door as he. We cannot if we wish to accomplish our goal and remain alive." His flippancy about the whole matter bothered me almost as much as our obvious danger, but he seemed not to care or notice my anxiety as he produced a set of lock picks from his pocket and began work on the front door.

I couldn't believe the man's sauce. He was the most marvelous detective I had ever met, but his methods were sorely lacking in sensibility. This man would find himself dead in an alley one day.

He opened the door with a speed that surprised even me and glancing at me, he pressed a finger to his lips begging my silence as we entered. The indoors was pitch black, but somehow he was able to see and strode silently away into the depths of the building.

I heard a noise from within as I stood stock still in that doorway, afraid to move lest I find myself at the wrong end of a revolver. It occurred to me that the criminal could have seen the slight light from the street, and I hastily and somewhat noisily closed the door behind me, leaving me in total darkness.

I suddenly heard a shout and sounds of a struggle. I rushed forward, crashing into walls and furniture and probably getting more bruised than the two men fighting, as I assumed they must be doing from the sounds I was hearing.

I finally stumbled into the scene of action, just in time to hear a loud retort from a gun blast into my ears and I tripped over what I assumed was a man and fell onto another.

"Confound you Francois!" I heard Holmes say, and then more scuffling and wriggling all under and around me as the fight continued. I'm ashamed to say I extricated myself and backed up until I hit a wall and waited for the inevitable end.

It soon came with a dull thud and a groan as a man fell, and then the voice of Sherlock Holmes rang loud and bright through the darkness.

"A match if you please, Francois!" he said with authority, and I took one with shaking hands and lit it to see Mr. Holmes standing triumphantly over our unconscious quarry, hands on his hips as he stared down at him. He flashed me a toothy smile which made me shiver, and he lit a match of his own and found a candle, bathing more yellow light over the scene.

I quickly observed the gash on the fallen man's head, the revolver on the ground with the bloody hilt, and the bullet hole in the wall opposite me. I also observed Mr. Holmes's flushed face and bright eyes. I do believe he enjoyed this whole mess.

"Now," he grinned broadly, rubbing has hands together, "if you will find some transport we can take him to the nearest police station."

* * *

Less than an hour later we were sitting in the offices of a station not two kilometers from where we had captured him, and Mr. Holmes had been regaling the officers with the details of the case. I was rather perturbed that he only made mention of me when asking for the confession I had hastily scribbled in my notebook as the criminal started raving as we waited for a cab.

"My, but these are messy notes Francois. You shall have to do better in the future," he admonished me as he looked over my writings and then continued his story. I may have not been much help when it came to the action, but I had been instrumental in this case. But he said nothing of me.

And the other officers had smirked when he used my given name. Why he insists upon using it I'll never know, but I find it rather demeaning. Perhaps that is his intention.

He finished the story with a flourish, lighting a cigarette and then looking to me as if asking approval. Or rather, acquiescence. The man was insufferable. Brilliant, but insufferable. Indeed, the case would remain unsolved without his help, but he had fewer manners than a boar.

Over behind the main desk, one of the men whispered something to which the others laughed. Mr. Holmes asked what amused them and they laughed again.

"Paotr sot," one man said aloud.

They all laughed and I understood the insult, but Mr. Holmes seemed not to. I was not surprised, for Breton was not a common language outside of this region.

But I could tell he knew he was the butt of some joke, so he simply turned back to me with only a hint of displeasure on his face.

"We handled this rather well, did we not?" he asked me, and I was stunned to silence by his mention of my part in it.

"Yes I thought so," I answered tentatively, not sure where he was going with this.

He lowered his cigarette, "Do they speak English?" he asked me, switching to that language. I shrugged my shoulders, and he turned to them and said in English again, "What do you think of Francois here and the way he handled the case?"

None of them answered, and a couple of them looked at me confused. I was extremely confused, but I told him that they appeared not to understand.

"There it is then," he smirked, and then after I questioned him he began to laugh uproariously. The other constables began to look uncomfortable and I saw the object of his language switch.

"You speak French very well," I said after a moment of sitting uncomfortably under his mirth.

"I should hope so," he responded, collecting himself almost too quickly, "If I could not speak my ancestral language I should be quite an embarrassment to my family."

"You…your family is from France?" I said nervously.

"Oh yes, and I'm rather ashamed to have not learned Breton. It seems I shall have to," he said, glaring at the still nervous officers.

"Not many speak it, really," I said, still unsure what he had on his mind. He had a gleam in his eye like he had at the start of this case.

He leaned back and drew deeply on the cigarette, "Well, I think I may stay in France for a time, and it would be an interesting study."

"Stay in France?" he must have heard the abject horror in my voice, for he sat up and looked at me curiously.

"Yes. Your police force seems skilled enough, and your occasional assistance would be invaluable to my investigations," he said, with what I thought was a hint of nervousness. I wasn't entirely sure what he wanted, but I knew that six months with the man had been enough. I wanted nothing more to do with him.

"Well sir, uh…I am not sure what cases I shall be assigned in the future. And the trial and aftermath of this one will certainly go on for some time. You, being the man of action Mr. Holmes, may be very bored and I'm sure I would be poor company," I said all in a rush.

And it seems I made a grave error with that statement. For he said nothing, but looked as if I had injured him in some way. But the look was gone in an instant and replaced with a cold look that made me shrink in my chair.

"Well then, don't allow me to disrupt your work in any way. I'll send all of the evidence by commissionaire tomorrow morning," he said rising hastily and making for the door.

"Oh…well, certainly you'll join us for the trial?" I said, getting a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

"Doubtful. It's likely to be a bore, as you said," he answered tersely, "Good evening gentlemen," he said in French, and then he was gone.

"I'll…let you know when the trial comes about, shall I?" I called after him. But I received no response except to see his back disappearing into the night.

I turned back to the men, who were all looking at me for an explanation. The only one I could think of was to repeat their earlier insult and apply it to myself.

* * *

_Author's notes: So this is placed about 1880 if you couldn't guess. I was going for a kind of… 'Holmes is lonely and wants a friend' sort of perspective. Did any of it come through? I didn't really put much effort into this, I'm afraid._


	14. Digressive Discussion

_A/N: From Chapter 1 of SIGN, the infamous watch bit and the introduction of the Doctor's late brother._

_Prompt # 14 – Why didn't Holmes find out about it before (you'll have to address the lack of mourning clothes issue here) and what was his reaction to finding out why Watson didn't tell him?_

* * *

Compelling Curiosity

Prompt 14 – Digressive Discussion

Sherlock Holmes noiselessly pulled open the great oaken door—barely a crack, just so that he could peek out and survey the territory. His face was impassive, which I would have found unusual given the circumstance, if not for the fact that I knew him so well. Nothing could shake that man's steel.

He satisfied himself and pushed the door shut again and turned to me with an impish grin, rubbing his hands anxiously. I couldn't return his fervor, for I was a bundle of nerves.

But then, who would blame me? For every man is nervous on his wedding day.

"Ready Watson?" he said with a zealous smile.

"Rather not," I replied bitterly. I should have been overjoyed, and in my heart of hearts I was. But I could not shake that ill feeling that had settled in the pit of my stomach.

"Oh come now, you've been dancing about giddily for no less than a fortnight and now you faint at the critical moment? That is not my Watson."

I scoffed, "You would feel the same way were you in my position."

"And why, pray tell?"

"Because marriage changes one's entire outlook," I said, drawing a shaky breath, "Your life is no longer your own once you take a wife and your priorities and responsibilities change. You no longer have the luxury of thinking only of yourself, but now have to provide and care for another."

He was thoughtful for a moment, "And that is different from lodging with me in what way?" he raised his eyebrows with a smirk.

"Well, I am not in love with you."

"I hope not," he snorted, "I'm afraid I could not return the sentiment." I laughed heartily and he smiled from ear to ear, rocking back on his heels. "Ah, now there is my Watson. Full of life and joy and a quality of beneficence that sets you apart among men. Miss Morstan is indeed fortunate."

I blushed at his compliments and fiddled with my buttons. When it suited him, Sherlock Holmes knew precisely the words to say for any occasion.

"Thank you," I finally answered, not yet able to meet his eye. When I looked up he was peeking out the door again, a distracted look upon his face.

"How many are you expecting?" he asked, turning to me curiously.

"Oh, twenty-five to thirty at the most. Why?"

"It just seems rather overdone for so few people."

"Oh well, you know how women are," I shrugged, "Extravagance in a wedding is of capital importance to them." The blank look he gave me showed me he did not understand. I rolled my eyes and chuckled a bit. "You see, most women have this idea of the perfect wedding. And they only have one chance to achieve it—"

"Unless a woman is married more than once," he interrupted.

"Perhaps," I frowned, "But in Mary's case only the _one_ time," I emphasized, "and she is rather frivolous with the details, regardless of the number of guests."

"But really, I only see nine people out there. This seems a bit much."

"Only nine?" I went to have a look for myself, and sure enough it was as he said. There were only nine guests at my wedding. Unless of course the wedding party, musicians, and priest were included. Then the number was eighteen. "Good heavens…" My mind went straight to my bank account and the money we had spent on decorations and food for the reception.

"Don't worry about your purse my dear fellow," Holmes read my thoughts, "I'm sure your consulting room will be overflowing with patients by the time you return from your honeymoon."

I couldn't repress a smirk at the mention of a honeymoon and the subsequent trail my thoughts laid. Holmes again read my thoughts, and he flushed a bright red and fiddled with the ends of his collar for a moment before recovering himself.

"Well, small or large a wedding is a joyous occasion to be shared with friends and family alike," he said, "I imagine Miss Morstan has brought all of her relations with her. Do they approve of you?" he winked at me.

"Actually she only has one family member who will be in attendance. A second cousin who happened to be in London. She also invited Mrs. Forrester and her family, and some friends from her sewing circle." Holmes was peeking out at the sanctuary again.

"That accounts for seven people including the maid of honor and the flower girl, and three more with the musicians. You and I, plus the priest and your bride make the number fourteen. Who are the others?"

"Ah, well that would be Thurston and his wife. And have you met Messrs Bartholomew and Castile? They and I were the only three students idiotic enough to take Doctor Edwards's proctology class in our freshman year." Holmes grimaced and I smiled inwardly. I was the only one who could say anything to shift his granite countenance. "We stuck together after that, for moral support. I've kept in touch with them over the years."

"I see. No distant cousins on your side then?"

"No, I've no family." My tone must have betrayed me, for he gave me a singular look and I was disposed to continue. "My unfortunate brother was the last of my family, or at least the last of whom I am aware."

"Unfortunate?" he asked tentatively, and I wondered at his sudden curiosity. But it did no harm to me or my poor brother if I were to share his circumstances.

"I barely knew him, but what I did know of him I did not much care for."

"No?"

"He was twelve years my senior, and only my half brother." Sherlock Holmes pushed the door shut telically and leaned against it. He could be incredibly pestiferous sometimes, but I could use the distraction from the matter of the moment. "His mother died in childbed, and my father did not marry again for ten years. So by the time I knew him, Hebert was almost a grown man and he had as little interest in me as I had in him. He had little regard for his fellow man, now that I think of it. He was so focused on his work that if he let anyone into his life it was a veritable miracle."

"What was his vocation?"

"He was an engineer. His work was on the underground, specifically the routes under the Thames."

"Underground?"

"The railways that are being built below ground." He looked at me blankly. "Do not tell me you are unaware of this? Good heavens man! It's bad enough not knowing the earth travels round the sun, but to not know of the remarkable innovations being employed in your own city is really disgraceful," I shook my head at him.

"How innovative can they be, really? They have simply moved a railway underground."

"It is rather more complicated than that my dear fellow. That is what my brother struggled for so long with and what sent him to his grave."

"Ah…" he looked at me expectantly, and I rolled my eyes.

"Not literally. You and your morbid speculations," I muttered, "No, it was drink that was his end, as you deduced from his watch."

"Indeed?"

"Yes. He was obsessed with his work, determined to find a better way of shoring up the tunnels so that the tubes could run longer with less labor. His ideas took him in and out of the poorhouse for most of his life. He would get an idea and try to market it. He would get investors and twice was actually able to employ some of his techniques. But they always failed, and he turned to the bottle. And one morning he was found dead on his face in bed," I concluded. Holmes looked at me curiously.

"Is that all?"

"I suppose so. I really did not know the man. I did not even learn of his passing until a month after the fact."

"And that is why the lack of mourning?" he asked tentatively.

"That and the fact that you don't mourn strangers," I shrugged, "I truly did not know the man, anymore than you know a client after a case is concluded."

Holmes thought for a moment, "So I take it were he living, he would not have stood next to you today?"

I laughed warmly, "No my dear Holmes, that honor belongs to you and you alone." I was gratified to see a touch of color come to his cheeks and the flicker of a smile as he turned to glance out the door again.

Just as he opened it, the priest walked in, startling my friend into stepping back several steps.

"All right Doctor, whenever you're ready."

"Thank you," I nodded and he left, leaving me suddenly nervous all over again. Holmes approached me and laid a hand on my shoulder, running his fingers across the red embellishment there.

"Blue is not your color," he sighed.

"I know," I answered, looking down at my military uniform, "But Mary insisted," I smiled.

"I imagine you will compliment her dress. Is she following the Queen's tradition?"

"I don't know."

"Well then," he said, turning quickly and taking up his violin from the open case upon the table beside me, "Let's find out," he grinned at me. And with a final nod of assurance, he left the room to go make the fourth of the string quartet.

I felt my heart race as soon as the door was closed behind him, but it was now or never. And 'never' was not an option.

I heard the sweet music begin and I opened the door one final time, closing it confidently as I left one chapter of my life behind to start another.

* * *

_Author's notes: Let me say that the family history of our dear Watson was entirely made up by me for the purpose of this story, and I may not even hold to it in future writings. It simply fit at the moment. Ah, the joys of fanfiction!_

_Oh, and for the life of me I couldn't find out specifically what Watson's full dress uniform would look like. So I guessed. I expect my email/pen pal to correct me if I'm wrong ;-)_

_Queen Victoria broke tradition and wore a white wedding dress, which has now become a world-wide trend._

_One other point; Hebert is pronounced "ay-BAIR" in case that was confusing. It's French._

_Oh yes, and if anyone can discover why I chose the names Bartholomew and Castile for Watson's peers, I'll write you a ficlet as a prize ;-)_


	15. Diverting Distraction

_A/N: Today, you have a choice. Take one of these two passages, from Chapter 3 of SIGN:_

_Miss Morstan's demeanour was as resolute and collected as ever. I endeavoured to cheer and amuse her by reminiscences of my adventures in Afghanistan; but, to tell the truth, I was myself so excited at our situation and so curious as to our destination that my stories were slightly involved. To this day she declares that I told her one moving anecdote as to how a musket looked into my tent at the dead of night, and how I fired a double-barrelled tiger cub at it._

_I trust that Sholto may not remember any of the answers which I gave him that night. Holmes declares that he overheard me caution him against the great danger of taking more than two drops of castor-oil, while I recommended strychnine in large doses as a sedative._

_Prompt # 15 – Take one of those passages and run with its infinite fun possibilities._

_Well, never one to balk from a challenge, I shall do both ;-)_

* * *

Compelling Curiosity

Prompt 15 – Diverting Distractions

I glanced back and watched the doctor drive away as I buried my head further into Elspeth's neck. It could have been my imagination, but I swore he was looking back at me just before the cab rounded the corner.

"Come on dear, let's get you some warm milk to settle yourself," she said, pulling me indoors. I followed her somewhat reluctantly, wanting to keep my eyes on the doctor as long as possible. He was something of a mystery to me, the way his moods changed so rapidly.

But I didn't have the chance to think about it, because Elspeth ushered me in and had me seated at the kitchen table with a shawl around my shoulders. She stoked the fire and put some milk in a small pot and then seated herself across from me with an eager look on her face.

"So what happened? Was Mister Holmes able to help?"

"Well…yes and no." I took several deep breaths to collect myself, knowing her gossipy nature would not allow me rest until the whole story had been told.

"Whatever do you mean?"

"He and the doctor served me perfectly as companions. We went to the Lyceum Theater and the man we met there took us all in a cab to meet Mister Thaddeus Sholto—"

"Ah! I knew that this would come back to Sholto. How was it then?"

"He told us of his father…and how my father met his end."

"Oh!" she exclaimed, putting a hand to her mouth, "I'm so sorry my dear. I had hoped that this meeting would lead you to a happy ending."

"It may yet," I said, and told her about the treasure. She listened keenly as I related the entire tale, from the first cab ride to Sholto's to the last back here. She expressed a marked interest over the murder of Bartholomew Sholto which I attempted to explain but had little success with, for the doctor had given me very few details on the subject. I was grateful to him for it as well, for this had been more excitement than I had seen in years.

Elspeth also expressed interest in the doctor, for he apparently had not been with Sherlock Holmes when she had asked his assistance. I told her what I knew of him—that he had been in Afghanistan and India, had traveled to Australia and was of an extremely distracted manner.

"Oh?" she asked, handing me the milk which she had poured into beakers, "How do you mean, distracted?"

"Well, his mind seemed to run ahead of his mouth constantly, and he would confuse his words."

"He doesn't sound very educated."

"Oh but he is. He has the deportment of a military man, the utmost propriety and manners, and yet...he is such a puzzle to me!" I said rather heatedly. Elspeth raised her eyebrows.

"Why?"

"He never seems to have his mind in the present."

"Yes, you said that. What do you mean exactly?"

"Well, for example, he was telling me a story about a time he was in Afghanistan. He was resting in his tent, and I gather that a tiger cub came in—"

"Oh my!"

"Yes, and he fired his musket at it, the poor creature. But what he said—he said that a musket came into his tent and he fired a tiger at it. Isn't that silly?" I giggled, suddenly finding it hilarious, "And then he was so distracted on the way to Pondicherry Lodge, that he told the ailing Mr. Sholto to take strychnine as a sleeping aid!"

I began to laugh uncontrollably and Elspeth gave me a very curious look.

"What distracted him do you suppose?"

"Oh, I imagine the luridness of the entire affair is what had him preoccupied. He was so disturbed that he scarcely spoke to me, even when I questioned him."

"He seemed focused enough when I spoke to him."

"Yes…it is odd, don't you think?" She gave me a very peculiar smile which I would have questioned her about, but we were suddenly interrupted by her young daughter.

I finished my milk and scooped the child up, taking her back to her room and tucking her in snugly. She fell back to sleep in an instant, and I didn't wonder that our conversation had woken her, the way I was laughing.

I retired to my room then, and as I sat brushing out my hair my thoughts remained on Dr. Watson. What an extraordinary man he was! Such a mystery, and one I was determined to solve, even if I had to spend eternity searching his bright hazel eyes to do so.

* * *

_Author's notes: Well, KCS said infinite possibilities ;-) Sorry for how ridiculously short it is._


	16. Feral Fraternity

_A/N: From Chapter 4 of SIGN, this sentence struck me: "...there is nothing more unaesthetic than a policeman." -Thaddeus Sholto_

_Prompt # 16 – Use that sentence in any form you wish, like you did the chicken one._

* * *

Compelling Curiosity

Prompt 16 – Feral Fraternity

I reveled in the distinctions being an inspector gave me, but the job has one aspect that I could truly do without—paperwork.

My desk is currently covered in more papers than I thought could exist for the few cases I was working on, and it was deadly boring to try to work through it all, especially with the disorganization.

It was going to get worse too. I was expecting more to be delivered at any minute by an amateur I had had occasion to work with on this case. He's a bright young theorist that may make something of himself if he ever settles his eccentric ways.

I had encountered him by chance in another investigation, where he showed some intelligence in connecting some obscure facts which led us to the conclusion. Of course, he would need far more training and field experience if he is ever to reach my height and skill.

A loud knock on my office door signified his arrival, I suspected, so I left the papers behind and opened the door to find a nervous constable.

"Well, what is it Durham?"

"Inspector, that…Mr. Holmes is here with the Sholto papers," he said unsteadily.

"Ah, just as I thought. Well, let's have it then," I said, pushing past the younger officer and walking downstairs to the ground floor, I found Sherlock Holmes leaning against the desk, absorbed in conversation with Inspector Lestrade and a few other constables. Upon spotting me, he acknowledged me with a nod and went back to his conversation, which I picked up the last few words of as I approached.

"…but the idea was absolutely impossible, because the door was locked from the inside," he chuckled, and the inspector joined him heartily. The constables too, after a moment of indecision upon seeing me. No doubt, Mr. Holmes was embellishing upon one of my miniscule errors in the recent investigation.

"What's that Mr. Holmes?" I asked as I reached the small group.

"Ah, Inspector Jones. I was just telling Lestrade about the various oddities in the Sholto case. Here is the information you required," he said, stretching out his thin arm and thrusting a loose sheaf of papers at me.

"Thank you," I said stiffly, studying my colleagues' faces. Inspector Lestrade was clearly about to explode with laughter, and the constables did not even bother to repress their laughter.

"Inspector," one of the constables said with a sly grin, "Mr. Holmes here was just telling us how you solved the Sholto murder. Care to give it to us in your own words?"

"Not particularly…"

"Oh come now Jones," Lestrade said rather perniciously, "Let's have your methods. You are the most logical of men and must have gotten on with Mr. Holmes splendidly in this case," he choked out, not doing a good job of containing his sick mirth.

I looked at Mr. Holmes with a less than courteous look, but his face remained impassive and yet, enigmatic as he leaned against the desk, his thin hands folded casually. The man was infuriating with his overly calm demeanor and confidence.

"I would be more interested in hearing about Mr. Holmes's trek across London as he searched for a man who had stepped in creosote. Ended up in a timber yard, did you not? Surrounded by barrels reeking of the stuff?" I said hotly. He raised an eyebrow in response but said nothing, so I continued. "And I seem to recall you saying we were in no danger from that despicable little creature that traveled with Small. But what was it that happened…I can't quite recall. Durham!" I said, turning to the man behind me who jumped at my sharp call, "You were there. Why not tell the story for Inspector Lestrade here?"

"I, um…" he tugged at his collar and I marveled at how he could accumulate such a sheen of sweat on his forehead in just a few seconds. I rolled my eyes and looked back to my amused colleagues, who were now turning their asinine gazes to the amateur.

His answer was to keep his eyes steadily on mine, unblinking until I was forced to look away. I heard Lestrade snort when I surrendered the silent battle, and turned my fury on him.

"What about that problem you were on about last week Lestrade? Something about a mysterious stranger haunting a secretary, who turned out to be her father? No no, you handled it admirably and were quite right to call in Mr. Holmes," I spat. Lestrade bristled and the young constables began to pale as the tension grew.

"Well," Lestrade huffed after a moment, "better to humble yourself in the interest of justice, rather than isolate yourself and arrest an entire household of innocents. Seems to me there is less pride in that," he said with a triumphant smirk. I felt my heartbeat quicken and I'm sure my face was red to match.

"Now see here—!"

"If you will excuse me," Mr. Holmes interrupted in a hurry, "But I do have a busy schedule. Good day to you," he said, turning on his heel. "Perceptive fellow, that Sholto…" he muttered as he walked away.

"What was that Mr. Holmes?" I snarled.

"Oh, just something Thaddeus Sholto said," he answered nonchalantly, but I could see in his eyes that a change had come over him.

"And?" I prompted viciously. He looked between Lestrade and me for a moment before answering with a pronounced shrug of his shoulders.

"Just that there is nothing more unaesthetic than a policeman," he said with a hard look in his eyes. And then he turned and left us with our jaws hanging open and staring at one another.

One of the constables behind me began to snicker, but I silenced him with a look.

"Insufferable lout…" I grunted.

"Oh, shut it Jones," Lestrade hissed and stalked out of the room. I rested my chin on my chest a moment, thinking.

What right did that man have to insult us, who had worked all our lives for our positions? None at all. And then he, a mere amateur would receive all the credit.

That busybody theorist had no place in the Metropolitan Police, and would not work with me again. I did not need his help to do my work or to make my name famous. No, the name of Athelney Jones would ring through London by my own efforts. Not by those of Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

_Author's notes: Well, it's another short one. I think my inspiration disappeared sometime last week… But do tell me what you think._

_Ironic, isn't it, that the name of Athelney Jones is never heard again._


	17. Disparate Designs

_A/N: From Chapter 5 of SIGN, I quote: "Oh, yes you do, McMurdo," cried Sherlock Holmes genially. "I don't think you can have forgotten me. Don't you remember that amateur who fought three rounds with you at Alison's rooms on the night of your benefit four years back?"_

_"Not Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" roared the prize-fighter. "God's truth! How could I have mistook you? If instead o' standin' there so quiet you had just stepped up and given me that cross-hit of yours under the jaw, I'd ha' known you without a question. Ah, you're one that has wasted your gifts, you have! You might have aimed high, if you had joined the fancy."_

_Prompt # 17 – Four years previously would have been 1893 or 1894...early days. Was Watson present at the gathering and if so, was that the first time he'd seen Holmes boxing seriously? What was his reaction?_

* * *

Compelling Curiosity

Prompt 17 – Disparate Designs

In my years of association with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have served him in many ways. I have been a sounding board for his theories, a chronicler when he needs to remember certain facts of a case, and a friend when his heart and mind needed grounding.

Most of all, I was his doctor, despite his endless protests. When working with a man who has no regard for his own health and knowingly and even designingly puts himself into physical danger, the result is inevitable. The man is somehow injured, and I have a chance to use my professional skills.

Most infuriating of all, however, is when he becomes hurt not in the course of his work. His idea of athletics always involved a chance for him to be injured. It had almost become routine, to the point that he would enter our rooms with a sheepish look and I would scold him as I tended his wounds.

I recall a time in '82 when he walked in with a neat bloody hole right through the center of his palm. He told me as he had been walking back, one person espied his wound, declared him the resurrected Christ, and had run down the street preaching Armageddon and the Rapture. I found it difficult to be amused considering the terrible time we both had until Holmes could again use his hand properly.

Scarcely a year later, another such incident occurred upon the conclusion of a very interesting case of murder within the world of professional boxing. The investigation was rather routine, but I could see that Holmes had taken more than an investigative glance around the arena where the dramatic climax of the case occurred.

So I was not surprised when a week later he staggered into the sitting room of our small suite, looking as though he had gone the rounds with someone in the heavyweights. I jumped up from my desk upon seeing the blood and bruises that seemed to adorn every inch of his exposed skin. And a good thing I did too, for he fairly collapsed into my arms after taking two steps into the room.

"Sorry Watson," he said weakly, offering an apologetic smile. I was angry with him, and he knew it. But now was not the time for lectures. We stumbled slowly toward the sofa, and I stared incredulously at the changed form of my friend, who had been the picture of health and life mere hours before.

The knuckles on both of his hands were raw and bleeding, and he appeared to have broken the little finger of his left hand, as well as his nose. He had a cut under his left eye and bruises were making themselves known on his cheekbones. I imagined there would be a good many more in the morning, and not only on his face by the way he leaned into me and hissed in pain with every step.

"Here now," I said, setting him down gently, "just a moment," I said as I rushed for my bag under my desk and called down the stairs for Mrs. Hudson to bring some hot water. "What on earth happened?!" I asked upon returning to his side and pulling some bandages out of my bag.

"Ah, well you remember that fellow who was suspected of murdering his fight manager?" he said behind closed eyes, leaning painfully back against the pillows I had set for him. He looked absolutely pitiful, and his voice was weak but steady. "Well, I had occasion to see him again and we went a few rounds in the ring."

"Good heavens Holmes! Against a professional boxer? You might have been seriously injured! And I'm not sure that you haven't," I said, glancing at all the lesions, "What possessed you…? That was a most foolish decision." I believe he would have shrugged his shoulders had the action not been such a painful one for him.

At that moment, Mrs. Hudson entered with the hot water and some towels. She paled at the sight of Holmes's injuries but instead of fainting, she took the other route and began scolding him for not caring about his health. He simply nodded and dismissed her with a slight wave of his hand. She left, but not before giving me a pointed look which I interpreted as meaning I was not to let him get away with this.

"Bare-knuckle boxing is illegal now Holmes," I said sternly. He opened one eye briefly to survey my expression.

"It was absolutely sensational Watson!" he said exultantly, though he still appeared on the edge of fainting, "The most invigorating opportunity I have had to test my skill."

"Not worth it," I muttered.

"Oh do not look so worried Watson, it is not nearly as bad as—ow!" he yelped, as I set his broken finger.

"Really?" He looked at me with his bright annoyed eyes, and were the situation different I might have laughed at his expression.

I cleaned the blood from his hands and face, and he hissed as I cleaned the cuts with alcohol. He was about to complain, but I forced his silence by cleaning the deep split of his lower lip. He glared at me for a moment, his darkly rimmed eyes flashing. But after a moment he closed his eyes and leaned back, giving in to the inevitable.

Holmes hated anything to do with medical treatment. He hated drugs, doctors, hospitals, and everything that went with them. I should have been honored to be the one doctor in whom he placed any trust, but having to constantly treat him for illnesses and injuries which could have been easily avoided, I could take no delight in the role.

The agitated hush in the room made my work all the more difficult, for knowing that Holmes had deliberately sought and likely enjoyed every cut and bruise I tended greatly disturbed me. Not only because of his utter lunacy in indulging such sports, but in thinking he could come back and I would be willing and able to attend him on each occasion.

To tell the truth, each time he came back like this with a meek apology and assurance that he was perfectly fine I questioned my morals as a doctor. By treating him each time I was condoning his actions, which I could not continue to do. As his friend and especially as his doctor, I could not maintain this mentality.

Holmes drew back with a cry as I shifted his broken nose back into place, and he looked at me again with irritation. I returned the look perhaps with some of the fire that had been burning through my thoughts, for he recoiled not from pain. I softened my expression with a sigh.

"As you are metaphorically still standing, I take it you were the victor?" I offered a truce.

He feigned shock as best he could without moving, "Of course Watson! And not without something to show for it." He winked at me and stretched his thin bruised arm toward his coat, which I had laid on the sofa next to him. He found the pocket and drew out a bundle of ten pound notes.

"Holmes!" I scolded, and he simply grinned.

"You need not worry Watson, I'm not taking up your bad habits. But when one has an opportunity to gain monetary advantage, it would be foolish not to engage it."

"You knew you would win then?"

"Of course. It would have been a grave mistake to challenge him if I was not sure of winning."

"_You_ challenged _him_?"

"Indeed." He leaned back and closed his eyes again, and it was all I could do not to explode at him. As I finished up bandaging his plethora of wounds, Mrs. Hudson entered with a pot of coffee.

"I thought you could use this Doctor," she said softly, and with a sad and disapproving glance at my friend, she left.

I poured two cups and turned to hand one to Holmes, but the gentle position of his eyelids and slow rise and fall of his chest told me he had fallen asleep.

I downed one cup of coffee and slowly sipped at the other as I watched Holmes sleep. I realized that despite my feelings, I could not refuse him treatment. For all of his great power of logic, he seemed to have lost all reason in the area of his health. And I couldn't abandon him in this, no matter how idiotic his actions. For one day he may fall to a depth even I cannot raise him from.

And I sat awake with that thought, watching him all through the night.

* * *

_Author's notes: I know there's not much of a plot, but it was fun to write. And before you zero in on that phrase 'he hated drugs,' recall this is 1883 and I for one don't believe he used cocaine in that year. Just my interpretation._


	18. Roborant Relics

_A/N: From Chapter 5 of SIGN, I quote (Watson regarding Bartholomew Sholto's grounds): "It looks as though all the moles in England had been let loose in it. I have seen something of the sort on the side of a hill near Ballarat, where the prospectors had been at work."_

_"And from the same cause," said Holmes._

_Yet another of Doyle's interesting discrepancies...in BOSC, which was set post-marriage, the word Ballarat is mentioned as a major connection in the case...and yet we hear no more about the fact that Watson obviously had been there. Holmes in SIGN is not surprised to hear this; obviously he knows Watson was in Australia at some point, but that is never brought up in BOSC._

_Prompt # 18 – Address this plot hole however you please._

_I'm writing my customary note here. This is another that I feel will be more effective without my rambling at the end._

_So I was inspired. I don't know where these ideas come from, but this one came and demanded writing. So I hope it's good and that I don't completely depart from canon in some of my suppositions._

_Questions, comments, concerns can be sent to me via review ;-)_

* * *

Compelling Curiosity

Prompt 18 – Roborant Relics

When one enters a building, it takes no great deductive skill to find indications about the place and the people who have lived there.

For example, if one observes numerous painted portraits upon a wall it is safe to suggest the people are of a proud nature concerning their ancestry. If photographs predominate, the people are more likely to be sentimental concerning members of the recent generation.

If a room is cluttered with expensive furniture and other curiosities, it is well to assume that the person is rich and recently come into his money, for a noble person would have better judgment as to the demonstration of his wealth. And conversely, if a room is bare save the necessities, it can be said that the inhabitants receive a lesser wage and know how to guard it.

But these terms are far too loose. They are merely a starting point, and if one is to draw judgment solely from these scant observations, they will most definitely err in one way or another.

A continuation of the scenario of the empty room is perhaps the simplest way to explain.

Is there dust upon the furniture, floor and sills? If so, it may be said the room is not often cleaned. The amount of dust will determine how often, and consequently it might be said that the person is of an untidy or possibly lazy personality. But again, more facts would be needed to corroborate any such thought.

In this room, if the bed too has accumulated dust it may be said that the place is vacant, and has not been used for some time. Again, the amount of dust will give the answer as to the duration of inactivity within the place.

These are some extremely basic few of the numerous methods which I employ in my business. But now, I believe I am missing something in my store of techniques.

I stand in an empty room. Not entirely empty, for it still contains a bed, dresser and nightstand. The bed is made, the end table contains an unlit lamp, and the dresser a basin and pitcher, both dry. There is a thin layer of dust upon the dark wood surfaces, and a slightly more visible layer on the window sill.

The bed however, has little dust. And the floor, except in those few dark corners that would not be used on a daily basis. There are some curious few other grimy smudges, near the dust ruffle of the bed, suggesting activity beneath.

I happened to know the accuracy of that last deduction, as I had observed the action being done. And it is now after watching that, that I stand leaning against the doorframe and drawing smoke in through my pipe, deliberately yet languorously. Somehow, it is a comfort.

And yes, I found myself needing comfort. Looking at this empty room, it is clear to me that matters of the heart are missing from my store of knowledge. Otherwise, I should have been able to make sense of the odd ache that had been growing in my chest for the past fortnight.

It is not a medical problem. That much is obvious. I did not consult the doctor on the subject, for even I, a logician, could recognize this was no physical ailment. But beyond that, I was clueless.

It is a difficult thing to admit, but to deny truth is worse. And now, staring at this empty room I am assured of the fact that something much deeper has been destroying me from the inside out. And I begin to see what it is.

"Holmes?" I hear the voice of my friend Watson from below, soon accompanied by his firm step upon the stair. "Holmes?" he repeats as he reaches me, and then squeezes past me into the room.

He surveys the drab room critically, his hands on his hips and his eyes darting into every corner. He finally turns and rests his intent gaze on me, raising his eyebrows questioningly. My response is to shrug.

I don't seem to be capable of forming coherent phrases to speak, so I just inhale more smoke as I watch him go through the drawers of the dresser meticulously, and looking behind the piece of furniture to be certain nothing has escaped his notice.

He seems dissatisfied to have found nothing in his search and moves on to the bed, lowering himself gingerly to the floor. I sneer as the thick black dust seems to magnetically attach itself to his trouser cuffs and knees.

"Ah!" he exclaims, upon having lit a match under the bed, "I knew there was something. Come on, give me hand," he said, waving out the match and scratching at his nose, where no doubt the dust had begun its other primary task.

I lay my pipe on the nightstand and kneel next to him, peering under the bed. Sure enough, against the wall and in the darkest corner there is a small box. We both reach for it, getting inestimably dusty in the process. And as we haul out the surprisingly heavy box, Watson finally breaks into an inevitable coughing fit from the dust we were stirring up. I had held my breath.

As he plies his handkerchief, sitting back into more dust, I study the object before me. It is a dispatch-box, made of tin and about twenty inches in length, twelve in width, and five in depth. It has been painted, but has obviously seen hard days for the color is mostly worn away, and the box is scratched and dented in several places. It has several streaks of an odd sort of mud ingrained into the metal in the damaged places.

It has a messy bullet hole directly through the British Army emblem on the top, which confirms everything my observations are leading up to. This is the dispatch-box Watson had carried with him while on active duty in India and Afghanistan. If there is any doubt, the worn name plate on the front states the fact.

Having arrived at my conclusion, I lean back on my heels and eye the rims of dust upon my knees. Were it not for Watson still sitting there coughing, I would have rushed for a lint brush at that moment.

"All right Watson?"

"Yes," he coughs, and I raise an eyebrow at him, "You really ought to have the room cleaned Holmes."

"I am amazed you could allow it to become so filthy," I counter.

"That isn't fair. You know I've scarcely even been here this last week, what with readying the house and all," he says glumly.

"Yes I know." He is silent, and I make to rise when he pulls the dispatch-box toward him as if to open it.

"I've not seen this for years," he says quietly, running a hand across the edge of the box.

"No?"

"No. I buried it with all of the other memories I didn't want." The strange ache in my chest is suddenly replaced with foreboding as he rummages about in his pockets. "Ah, I know. Wait a moment," he says, rising and stirring up more dust as he walks past me and leaves the room. I give up and sit down, coughing as I reach for my pipe.

I relight it and draw on it gratefully, staring at the mysteriously heavy tin box that has arrested his attention. What specifically does it contain? Why has he not opened it in years? And why is he doing so now?

I haven't time to muse upon a solution, for he returns with a small key held triumphantly in his right hand. He sits in front of the box again, and I can't help moving around to see as he fits the key comfortably to the lock and gingerly raises the lid.

I move next to him and peer inside as he takes his hands from the lid, giving me a clear view. And what I see are papers.

He starts pulling them out cautiously, as the box is stuffed, and he glances at each for a moment before handing them over to me. But I am more interested in watching his face as he looks at them.

The first ones out are his army discharge papers, which he glances at for the briefest of moments with dark eyes. There are some letters next, not all in his hand by the envelopes, and I assume they are correspondences from during his service.

He opens one and reads over it with a fond smile, then another with a melancholy, withdrawn look. I have the strangest impression that he isn't really here as he travels backwards through his past. But he must have some presence, for these letters he does not hand me, but sets on the floor to his right.

He takes out his commission papers, which he holds up proudly against the pale light from the window, and does the same with his university diploma. There is some more correspondence mixed in, and one letter he reads and then blushes to the ears. I see the return address is from a woman before he sets the letter aside.

And finally, he reaches the bulk of the contents of the box. It is full of no less than two dozen small journals, all tightly bound and labeled with the years and months. They start, or rather end in 1880 and go as far back as 1867 from what I observe.

He begins pulling them out and scattering them across his knees and the floor around us, so that soon the box is empty. He chooses one at random and unties the ribbon which has kept it shut, opens to the very center and begins to read. He is extremely absorbed in his occupation, and I wonder what exactly he expects me to do.

I had read every paper which he had handed me, and respectfully ignored the ones he had set aside. Now there were numerous small leather journals scattered across the dusty floor, bound delicately with ribbons and meticulously labeled. Does he intend me to read them as well?

After several minutes of indecision, I reach for the nearest one and look at him tentatively. He is still absorbed in the one, but I simply cannot read a man's private thoughts without permission.

"May I?" I ask, startling him from his reading.

"By all means," he nods, and reaches for a different journal. I look at the one I have picked up.

It has a cheap leather binding and is much worn, indicating frequent use. There is a long scratch across the front that seems to have been made with a knife. I do not believe Watson would deliberately do such a thing, and the line does not seem to be deliberately cut. I surmise this particular journal has seen some lack of care in its time.

The date on the label is from March to November of 1879. I undo the ribbon and open to the center. The writing on the page is clear, but seems hurried. It is also quite small, so that I must move so the light from the window hits the page directly. There is no blank space on the page, even the margins being filled with the script of his fair hand.

The entry is dated the fifth of July at two o'clock in the morning. I swallow nervously and delve into the body of text.

_I lost James about two hours ago. I thought I was getting used to it, but as I cannot sleep it seems I was wrong. The others seem to be able to stomach it as well as I, but I can see how it haunts them. We have such limited resources, and there is so much we could do for everyone if we had the means. But we may as well be living in the dark ages for all the good we are doing. I wish that—_

The text halts there in a jagged line, but picks up again immediately with a new subject.

_By heaven, this place never ceases to surprise me. A tiger cub just walked right into my tent. I'd never been more terrified, even with the Ghazis firing over my head while treating the men during battle. What is it about predatory animals that strikes such fear into the hearts of humans?_

I stop reading there. Just the slight mental image of hot eastern fields with men dying for a futile cause made my stomach turn. I put the journal down and look up. Much to my surprise, Watson is watching me.

"All right Holmes?"

"Yes," I say quietly, and his eyes swim with worry. The way his emotions change so rapidly amazes me. I will have to make a study of it sometime.

"Ah, that one's not so good," he frowns, picking up the journal I had been reading, "Try an earlier one," he says and looks at me expectantly. I still haven't any idea what he expects from this pursuit, but I am not prepared to question him on the subject.

For the past two weeks I have not felt I can speak to him about anything. He has barely been home and his time has been spent bent over papers from solicitors and answering correspondence. I seem to have passed entirely from his world, and I am not sure how to re-enter it.

Perhaps this is his way of opening the door.

"This one is amusing," he says as he leafs through a slightly larger journal of expensive red leather, "Although…you probably would not be interested in my thoughts about the young lady whom I met in my German language class."

"It would not be my first choice of reading material."

He laughs, "No I didn't think so. Well…ah, how about this? You can compare my first writings to my most recent," he says, handing me the smallest of the journals. This one is of pale blue suede, and when I open it the writing is in Watson's familiar script, but larger and less smooth than it is now.

This one is simply labeled 1868, and I turn back to the first page to see why this is the one he has recommended to my attention.

_27 February 1868_

_I will go mad in this house. Not that I wish to be outside, but staying inside is no longer an option. At least the weather is beginning to cool, so I should be able to go outdoors. The only challenge will be avoiding the diggers. I do wish Dad hadn't forced me into a choice, but I am not going to spend my life digging for gold._

_Nor do I want to spend every hour indoors studying __Gray's Anatomy__. But he gave me that ultimatum and I had to make my choice. Either some local endeavor, or something back home in England. But even home I have limited options, because of his ideas of what is respectable._

_I have no desire to go into any occupation that requires physical labor, nor do I care to sit behind a desk for the rest of my life. Unless I'm writing of course, but Dad doesn't consider that respectable. Nor profitable, I suspect._

_Mum wants me to write of course. It was she who gave me my first journal. How surprised I was when I reached the final page and had to buy this one. I at least hope I can keep this one away from her. When I found her reading the other I was so offended._

_I had thought she suggested I write my thoughts for my benefit, not for her to read them. So I think I'll hide this one. I wonder what would be an ideal place…_

_Women are truly inscrutable. They are cleverer than any dingo or snake I've ever encountered, and goodness knows there are plenty of those around Creswick. Though the presence of wildlife has declined in recent years, as the prospectors come closer._

_Of course, it was ridiculous to think that just because gold had been found eleven miles away that it would be found here. But apparently they do not see that._

_What is worse, are the prospectors who stop here and do not continue on to Ballarat. They invade the town like a plague. Seeing the ruin some have come to convinced me all the more not to enter into such a risky profession._

_I want work that is dependable, but can help people. I look at these prospectors, and only see how they have wasted their lives. There must be some way to help them._

_This afternoon, I was outside helping Mum with the roses and on the road I saw an old man and his wife and son. They saw me, and the man approached. He asked for a few shillings to buy a meal for his family._

_Mum let them come inside and gave them supper, though the man protested greatly against charity. I could not understand that._

_Clearly, the man had not been lucky in the gold fields, and I am not alien to feeling pride. But with his wife and young child to consider, surely it was worth some humility to ask for help. And I did not see it as shameful at all. Perhaps if ever have a family one day I will understand._

_But that child… He wore no shoes, his clothes were tattered, and he looked to have not bathed in over a week. His bulging stomach spoke of an extreme lack of food, his eyes were bloodshot and he had such a haunted look… Had he ever known joy?_

_I felt powerless to help him. But I gave him a pair of my old shoes. They were too big of course, but it was something. And I gave him some soda in water to help with his stomach. I can only hope it helped._

_There are so many others that need help. But I can't end poverty by giving away my old clothes and administering folk remedies._

I am startled as the entry ends so abruptly. I turn to find Watson inches from my face and almost fall back in surprise. How had he come up next to me so silently?

He has obviously been reading along with me, for he reaches across and turns several pages until stopping at an entry dated several months later. He does not look at me, but begins to read, so I adjust my position and hold the journal so we can both read easier.

_7 June 1868_

_The most amazing thing happened today. I was ready to leave Ballarat, but Dad said we had to stay another week and I am certainly glad we did. Today a body was discovered in one of the pits._

_Accidents were common in such hazardous work, but this was different. The man had been stabbed straight through the heart and when they brought him out, a note was discovered in his pocket. I was there to see it, and Dad helped carry the body out._

_The note read, "the death of deceit," and nothing else. I glanced over the body while the men were arguing, but there was no identification on him. He was about forty years of age, had hard features which were contorted in pain, and was well dressed._

_I was especially interested in the knife wound. The knife was still embedded in the man's chest, stuck in directly between the fourth and fifth ribs down to the hilt. There was no doubt as to the cause of his death._

_But I could learn nothing else, because Dad looked down and caught me examining the man. If I'd been a younger man, he may have whipped me. But I explained what I was doing and as I had settled on medicine as my field of study, he was more forgiving._

_But I can't help but wonder about the murdered man. Who is he? Why was he murdered? What was the meaning of that cryptic message that had been left in his pocket?_

"Well?" I ask, for the journal entry ended with those questions.

"Oh," Watson looks confused for a moment, but soon gets my meaning, "His name was Horton and he had been selling mining claims, advertising their wealth with several bags of gold dust and nuggets. Of course, the claims were dry and he would get away with the poor miners' money. But they caught on rather quickly and served their own brand of justice."

"I suspect no one was arrested for the murder?"

"No, it could have been anyone," he rubs his jaw thoughtfully, "And Ballarat was not even a proclaimed city then. Scant police force and no real law in the territory."

"Right," I answer, "And probably no defining details about the weapon used?"

Watson laughs, "Good heavens Holmes, I don't remember. And I wasn't looking for those types of details. I was busy looking at the amount of blood which the wound had created and trying to determine his time of death from that and other facts."

"You were born a medical man Watson."

"I suppose so, yes…" I watch him curiously. He has that faraway look in his eyes again.

"Or a writer." He looks at me in surprise, but smiles warmly. But still, I cannot be rid of that ill feeling that has plagued me these past several days.

Watson is looking at the window, but not out it. Not that anything can be seen, with that blazing white sunlight coming in. I wonder if I should inquire as to his thoughts, as I cannot deduce them beyond a certain point.

Clearly he is thinking of some event in Australia that he does not wish to remember. But what it is I cannot determine. I haven't enough facts, though I suspect the journals would yield them. However, I can't sit upon the floor pouring through the ramblings of a teen-aged boy for something totally ambiguous.

"What happened Watson?" He startles at the sound of my voice, and looks at me in astonishment. It is gratifying to know that I can still surprise him with my simple deductions.

"It was a great combination of things really," he sighs, looking at the empty box in front of us, "The poverty, the lack of governmental support, the crime…"

"Was it that bad?"

"Indeed. One of the worst crimes I was witness to—this was right before I left for university—was discovering the body of an aborigine woman. She had been…rather badly abused. And it was obvious some of the miners were to blame, because she was found in one of the pits."

"You discovered her?"

"Yes, I and a friend who was coming to London with me. Poor fellow really wasn't cut out for the hard life there."

"And you were?" He hesitates a moment before answering.

"No," he swallows, and turns his gaze back to me. Something about his eyes at this close distance disturbs me, and my instinct is to back away. But I have probed into the subject and it would be in poor taste to shy now at what seemed to be the consummation of his purpose.

"No?" I ask in what I hope is a gentle tone.

"No," he repeats, his fierce green eyes boring into mine, "The way those people lived was deplorable. I had not seen such suffering and indignities in the whole of my young life. It scarred me…deeply. If there could be a physical demonstration of that scarring upon my body, you would be frightened at the sight of me. And that is sometimes what I saw, in Australia. Such pain that some people endured, it took every ounce of strength within me to keep from running away screaming.

"And even when I thought I had become desensitized to it all, when I could look upon them with something more than the mind of an inquisitive child, it only stayed my conscious revulsion. I did not have a restful night of sleep until my second year at university. I remember it too, because of Sarah and…" he trails off and blushes bright red, and I find myself doing the same. Interesting what paths the human brain will take when given the slightest suggestion.

"Anyway," he clears his throat, "I was determined to find some way to change their lives, and the lives of others in similar situations. As you are keenly aware, London has its share of atrocities and that motivated me all the more."

"So you chose medicine as your way of dispensing aid?" I interrupt, nervous about the thread of this conversation.

"Yes, that and the fact that I had always had an interest in the subject made my choice of what to study rather a simple one. But such is life, it couldn't remain simple." I remain silent, hoping he will drop the subject. But knowing Watson, it is a vain hope. "We had the army recruiters on campus the very week the war started. They were…very charismatic. Masters of persuasion and appealing to the human heart. It was not long before I had transferred my feelings about Australia to the East and I enlisted the moment I earned my M.D."

"That…that is enough," I say, and he looks at me curiously. That ache in my chest is growing with every word he speaks, and I have to stop it.

For an instant, he looks hurt as he realizes I do not want to hear his tales of the past. But the look is gone immediately, replaced with a strange expression which I can only describe as a mixture of surprise, disbelief, and…anger? Oh my, what have I done…

He rises and starts for the door to leave now, I assume. I feel suddenly cold and…something else I cannot explain, as he leaves from his close position next to me.

He doesn't leave, but stands by the door. I wonder why, but suddenly Mrs. Hudson appears in the doorway in front of him, and she fairly jumps upon nearly running into him. I hadn't heard her approach.

"Oh Sir, you startled me!" she says in her light but distinct voice.

"What is it Mrs. Hudson?" he asks rather tersely. I realize now that I have offended him, but how I had done so I cannot imagine.

"I wanted to inform you," she begins, but pauses as she peers into the room and sees the mess of papers and journals and me among them, "that Miss Morstan is here."

"Ah, thank you," he says, his face clearing instantly into a broad smile. Mrs. Hudson nods and leaves, and Watson turns back to me and the scattering of letters and leather books in the dust.

"Well, I'll be off then," he says plainly as he scoops up the letters and dumps them into the dispatch-box. He moves around to where I have laid the important papers and puts those in the box too. Then he snaps the lid shut, lifts it and starts for the door again, leaving me surround by the dusty journals.

"Wait, what of all this?" I ask him, gesturing with the pipe in my hand to the mess around me.

"I don't want them," he answers, but his mind seems to have left the room again, for there is that hollow look in his eyes that has flitted in and out for the time we have been sitting and reading of his past.

But his face clears immediately and he gives me a long and tender smile.

"Bye Holmes," he says, and disappears through the doorway.

I listen to his steps on the wooden stairs and then upon the carpet as he reaches the sitting room. I can hear the muffled voice of his fiancée greeting him, and his following hers. They stay and talk for just a moment before I hear the faint footsteps leave through the main door and then disappear on the steps to the street.

I am suddenly assaulted with such a feeling of isolation as I have never felt before in my life.

I look around the room again, at the simple coverlet upon the small bed, the plain curtains pulled to the sides of the window, the dark wood furniture contrasting with the lighter floorboards, and the sickly white light that illuminated it all.

Yes, something is indeed lacking in my inventory of methods of reasoning.

This room is empty. But it is different from other rooms. It is easy enough to deduce from the small layers of dust and it's dispersement that the room has been occupied recently and the person who occupied it has just moved out.

But the lack of furniture and little objects that indicate use that makes this room empty. It is the lack of life.

The spirit has gone from it, and it is truly empty now. I would not know this, if not for the fact that I know that spirit so well and its absence rips at me like the claws of a tiger.

I shall have to see, if I can add this discernment to my methods. But I doubt I shall be able to. Matters of the heart have always been Watson's department. And now he is gone.

I rise from the dirty floor and sit on the edge of the bed, wiping some of the grime from my trousers. I see the dust in the air which I have stirred by my movements. It drifts in and out of the shaft of white light from the window.

And now I notice…the light is illuminating the scatter of journals upon the floor. Shining on that part of his soul he has left behind for me.

That is what he was doing. Making sure that while he was physically gone, I would not be without him. Good old Watson…

I gather up all the journals in my arms and carry them to the dresser. Two fall off when I drop them all, because the basin and pitcher take up a good deal of room on the small surface.

I pick up the two that have fallen and carry them back to the bed with me and sit down. One is labeled 1880, the other 1873. The ribbon of the latter has partially slipped off in the fall. I opened that one.

I am nervous about searching through the life of another man when my purpose wasn't business. I do not truly know how to observe such things as these private writings without the eye of a reasoned. But for the sake of my friend, I shall try.

There is a corner of one of the yellow pages bent over, so I turn to that page, curious as to why Watson would deem it worthy of special note.

_5 April 1873_

_I received a letter from the colonial magistrate today. Mum and Dad died two weeks ago…_


	19. Irregular Introduction

_A/N: Chapter 6 of SIGN is notable for the introduction of dear Toby...who surprisingly we never hear from again, despite his popularity in fanon._

_Prompt # 19 – You may choose one of two today: Either describe when and how Holmes first met the interesting character Sherman and so met Toby, or tell us why we never hear of Toby again (without having the dear fellow run over by a cab or something, if you want me to read it)._

* * *

Compelling Curiosity

Prompt 19 – Irregular Introduction

"Hey, watch yourself boy!" a rough voice complained as I knocked over a small, table where a street vendor was selling his merchandise. I hadn't time to pause and explain myself, for if I took even a moment the man I was chasing would surely escape.

After laying a trap, I had caught up with the man in Whitechapel. Though I hadn't a clue to our present surroundings, beyond that it was obviously near the railroad. And a rather unsavory looking place as well. If I weren't moving so fast, it would not surprise me to find my pockets picked.

The chase had been long and the man surely must be tiring out, as I was beginning to. I would have already had him if I had brought Watson with me, but his leg was in no condition for this type of activity. So now I was alone in a less than respectable part of London, chasing an extremely less than respectable man, and enraging the residents in my pursuit.

The man obviously knew these streets, the way he wove through the alleys and dodged the carts of the merchants. I did not have that advantage, and bumped into a man with a cart who was suddenly in my path. I called back an apology as I continued after my prey.

We were coming to a broad street, and I seemed to be a bit closer. He was finally feeling the effects of the long chase, and I knew I would have him in a matter of minutes.

He ran across a street, just missing being run down by a hansom cab. I had the prudence to look at my surroundings before starting across, although it was a rather mild glance around. I could at least see I had time to avoid the oncoming traffic.

What I did not see, was the small dog which had the idea of crossing the street at that exact moment in the exact same place I was running.

I collided with said creature, and found myself on my back with the scruffy thing tangled between my feet.

I was extricating myself when a loud clamoring sound reached my ears. I turned and became rather distraught upon seeing the hooves of two horses and the wheels of the attached carriage less than twenty feet from me.

The only thought that entered my mind was that this was the end. And then, something hard collided with my back and I was roughly shoved forward.

I felt a muscle in my left leg stretch beyond its limit, and the pain of that coupled with the pain of my body once again impacting the hard ground occupied my mind for several seconds.

Rubbing my injured leg, I hurriedly opened my eyes and turned to see the back of the cab moving away harmlessly. That had been a very narrow escape, so I naturally turned to thank whoever my savior had been.

I was much surprised then, to see a rather coarse-looking man fondling the dog that had been the cause of my misfortune.

"Ooh!" the man whimpered, "My poor Toby! Are you all right boy? There's a good dog!"

I watched this scene in stunned bafflement until I realized the man's motive had been to save the dog from certain death. Sparing my life was simply a consequential incident.

It suddenly occurred to me I was still in the middle of the street, and another crisis could come at any moment if I remained in that unsafe position. I rose unsteadily, my leg giving me a bit of pain, and walked to the curb. I looked around for my quarry, but the man had vanished.

"Sorry about that," I turned around quickly at the sound of the little man's voice, "I hope I didn't hurt you too badly?"

"Not at all," I answered, looking him over warily. From his greasy appearance, I would rather not shake his hand. But it was only decent, as the man had verily saved my life. "Thank you," I said, extending my hand.

He reciprocated uncertainly, as if he didn't know what I was thanking him for.

"No trouble," he said, "I'm just glad my dear Toby is all right. He's always running out on me, getting himself into some mess."

"I see," I answered, looking at the creature that was now seated obediently at the man's feet.

"Problem is his nose. He catches the scent of some tasty morsel and off he goes. One time I chased him halfway to the park before he stopped at some poor man's door. Fellow didn't know any better and opened the door. Toby was at his place at the dinner table, gobbling up his goose. Before he even knew what had happened."

The man laughed as if it were the most hilarious tale this side of the Thames. But his ramblings had given me an idea.

"Could he track a person, do you think?"

"Oh, aye. If he has a scent to go on, he'll follow it until he drops."

"Excellent," I said, rubbing my hands, "I would like to hire your dog, Mister…"

"Sherman, Sir," the man said, wide-eyed. He seemed to be barely keeping up with the train of my thoughts.

"Right then," I said, kneeling in front of the dog that was standing obediently at his master's feet. I took a paper out of my pocket and placed it in front of the mutt, who sniffed it eagerly. The paper was a note written by the man I was pursuing and had the distinct odor of fish about it, as he manned a fishing boat when he was not involved in the illegal slave trade.

The dog immediately ran off at break-neck speed and I followed as quickly as I could, with the man Sherman shouting after me. This Toby was fast, and my leg hurt. I hoped it was worth the trouble.

The dog did not go far, but ran into an alley and I barely caught a glimpse of it running through the back door of a launderer's as I painfully followed.

I entered the building, Sherman puffing behind me, and we found Toby barking at the man I had been pursuing. He had hidden himself behind a pile of linens, but now thanks to the dog he had several women staring at him.

"Well," I said breathlessly "Would you care to tell these ladies as to why you have invaded their establishment?" The man only sulked, so I reached down and snapped a pair of handcuffs on him and drug him reluctantly back out the way we had come.

"What is this then?" Sherman asked, as wide-eyed as ever. The dog, having finished its task had returned to its master's feet.

"This man is a criminal. I am bringing him to justice."

"What, you a copper then?"

"No, a private agent. But I serve the law."

"By Jove…" he said, wiping his brow with a soiled handkerchief.

"If it is not too much trouble, would you mind calling for a constable? My hands are rather full with this ruffian at present."

"Right, right away sir," he said and tottered off, the dog following him obediently. Strange that the dog was behaving now when it was of little importance.

I turned my attention back to my prize, "Would you care to name your contact in Morocco, or shall I have to find him on my own?" The man was silent. "Come now, it will go easier for you if you cooperate."

I was then quite surprised, though I shouldn't have been, when he brought his arms up violently into my face, knocking me back upon the stairs of the building behind me.

I thought he would run, but instead he fixed his rough hands around my throat and squeezed with a strength I didn't think a man of his size possessed.

As I had been taken by surprise, I found myself running out of oxygen before I could offer a proper defense. I felt my throat constrict as I tried to breathe, and could hear his dark laughter as my eyesight started to dim.

But then, I faintly heard a clamoring sound, and suddenly I was released. I scrambled backwards, closer to the building and tried to catch my breath. Then I looked up to see that the source of the other noise had been the dog, Toby. And it was currently attached to the leg of my assailant.

I watched with interest as the man tried to remove the dog from his leg, but could not due to the restraining handcuffs. He was swearing a blue streak, and failing in removing the creature from his person. I was content to let the animal manage him while I waited for the blood and oxygen to return to my brain.

Just then, Sherman came running back with a police officer hot on his heels.

"What's all this?!" the officer said, looking from me to the man fighting the dog. I opened my mouth to speak, but only a cough came out. So Sherman answered for me.

"This fellow here is a crook!" he declared passionately, "and my Toby helped track him down." He smiled proudly and looped his thumbs under his suspenders as he stood, perfectly confident in his statement.

He was then surprised by the constable's query, "What did he do?" I slowly rose to my feet and introduced myself to the man, and briefly explained the situation. He looked dubious, but my name had some effect on him and he agreed to take the man in.

He blew on his whistle and two of his colleagues soon appeared to assist him, and I gratefully sank back down to the steps of the launderer's.

"Well…" Sherman's voice broke through my kaleidoscope of thoughts, "that certainly was something."

"Indeed," I said uninterestedly. I was thinking more about how I was going to tell Watson I had nearly been run over by a carriage, sprained my hamstring, and then made it worse running after a dog.

"How about my fee?"

My head snapped up, "What?"

"You said you were hiring my dog. Well he's done his work, and I want payment," he said commandingly. I hadn't entirely realized what my spur of the moment decision to use the dog had meant.

"Of course," I said quickly and fished in my pockets until I located a guinea and handed it to him. his eyes grew wider than ever.

"Uh, you wouldn't happen to be needing Toby for any other tracking jobs would you? He's a fine creature, and willing to work at any time." I could have laughed at the man's spluttering attitude, but instead looked at the dog curiously. It regarded me equally, panting rapidly with its great pink tongue lolling out of its mouth.

"I just might take you up on that offer Mr. Sherman."

"Right then. I'm at number three, Pinchin Lane whenever you need Toby. I've other dogs too Sir, and you can have your pick of them."

"I think Toby will serve me well enough," I answered, favoring the man with a slight smile.

"Uh, right then. Well I'll be off. Come along Toby…oh!" he stopped suddenly, "What's your name?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Right then. Good day to you Mr. Holmes," he said, and left the alley, followed by Toby's scruffy, wagging tail.

* * *

_Author's notes: Simple enough, and rather curious too. Holmes gets into the most unlikely situations..._


	20. A note from the author

_To my devoted readers:_

_It is with much sadness that I am putting Compelling Curiosity on hiatus indefinitely. Not only have I all but lost my inspiration, but my next term of school begins next week and I will no longer have the time for daily writing prompts._

_Also due to this lack of time, I am all but withdrawing from writing fanfiction. I promise to finish All Is Memory, hopefully updating two chapters a month. I also have three other stories I am working on that I hope to finish within three to four months. But as a full-time student, I must give priority to my studies. My writing must return to the status of a hobby instead of the full-time job I had elevated it to._

_However, I am by no means withdrawing from the community. I will still read and review all of your fics, I will still beta-read, and I will still be around for conversation. I simply haven't the time to write._

_Thank you all for reading my work. I truly appreciate your kind words, and I hope to find time to add to this series again someday._

_Forever,_

_bcbdrums_


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